


The Ties That Bind

by sahiya



Series: The Ties That Bind [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sara Ellis became part of Neal Caffrey's family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with a long story, a number of people have contributed along the way. Thanks first of all to via_ostiense, who read as I wrote and forgave any number of problems while doing so. She's also done (is doing!) an awesome beta job at the end, as well, slaying my ellipses and dashes. Thanks also to Fuzzyboo, without whom my grammar would suffer terribly, and to Lionessvalenti, who has come in as a pair of fresh eyes at the very end to assure me that I'm not mangling Sara's character. 
> 
> Finally, thanks go to Aria, who said, once upon a time in season 3, that while Sara was an awesome character, the writers had not done much to make her part of Neal's family. A lightbulb went on in my head, and I realized that that was what this story was really about.
> 
> I'm not really going to try and hold to a posting schedule, but be assured, the whole story is drafted. Chapters should go up sooner than later.

Fall was Sara's very favorite time of year. The heat and humidity of summer in New York gave way to a few weeks of crisp air before the relentless cold and damp of winter. Rather than taking a cab to work in the morning, she walked through Central Park, where each day the colors of the leaves deepened just a little more. The park was quiet before eight, with just a few joggers out, and Sara enjoyed strolling along, sipping her latte and considering how to balance the paperwork from the cases she’d closed last week with the legwork required for her new ones.

She was passing the zoo when her cell phone rang. She fished it out her coat pocket, glanced at the screen and smiled as she answered it. "Hi, Neal."

"Hey, Sara," Neal said. It sounded as though he were on his way to the office himself, traffic noises in the background. "How are you this fine morning?"

"Very well, thanks. Yourself?"

"I’ll be much better when Peter and I wrap this case, so we can stop working fourteen hour days, and Peter can stop wearing his lucky tie. I've had to look at that thing across the conference table every day this week."

Sara laughed. "Poor baby. No one suffers like you suffer."

"That tie is a sartorial crime," Neal said, aggrieved. 

"I believe you," Sara said, smiling. "But the takedown's today, isn't it?"

"Yeah, this afternoon. By five o'clock, there should be nothing left but the paperwork."

"Does that mean I'll get to see you? I'm starting to forget what you look like." By Sara’s calculations, it had been over two weeks since she'd last seen Neal, certainly the longest they'd gone without seeing each other since getting back together. Sara wasn't one to whine about such things - God knew there were times when her own work schedule got in the way - but she was looking forward to it being over. 

"Can't have that," Neal said. "And yeah, actually, that's why I was calling. What are you doing tonight?"

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking about washing my hair. Maybe alphabetizing my bookshelf. Unless you have something better in mind?”

Neal laughed. "Well, actually, when we wrap a big case like this, the team usually goes out for dinner afterward. Peter brings El, Diana brings Christie. And I thought it'd be great if you came with me. Afterward, you and I could head back to my place. I have some champagne I've been saving for just such an occasion. How does that sound?"

"It sounds nice," Sara said. She paused at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. "Though I'm not sure I wouldn't rather have you to myself after two weeks of enforced abstinence."

"Rest assured, I intend to more than make up for the neglect. But I need to go to dinner with Peter and everyone else. It's a team thing. And it's fun."

Sara was quiet as she finished crossing the street with a horde of other morning commuters. She turned down the block toward her office building. "You really want me to come, don't you?"

"Well, yeah," Neal said. "It didn't occur to me that you wouldn't want to."

"It's not that I don't want to," Sara said hastily. "It's just . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Of course I'll be there. Just let me know where and when."

"Will do," Neal said. "It'll probably be about seven, but I'm not sure where yet. Peter always pushes for Donatella's, but I think it's Diana's turn to pick. I'll text you. And I promise," he added, "by ten o'clock we'll be back at my place."

"I'm going to hold you to that, Caffrey." She stopped in front of Sterling-Bosch's building. "Well, I'd better go. Good luck on the takedown. Be careful."

"I'm always careful."

Sara laughed. "I mean it, Neal. Take care of yourself."

"I will. See you tonight."

"See you tonight," Sara echoed. She hung up and slipped her phone into her pocket, then tossed her coffee cup in a nearby trashcan before mounting the stairs. Why had she been so reluctant to agree to dinner with Peter and everyone else? She knew the whole team. They were nice people, and this was a harmless ritual. It was flattering that Neal would want her there at all. 

She put it aside once she entered the building. She'd learned to set her personal life aside completely at work while she'd been dating Bryan (and especially once she _hadn't_ been dating Bryan), and it was still useful. Whatever that weird little mental hiccup on the phone had been, this wasn't the place to think about it. 

She spent the morning alternating between some files that had been delivered and mind-numbing paperwork leftover from the case she’d closed the week before. Neal texted twice; the first time, it was to report that Peter was, indeed, wearing his lucky tie ( _I wonder if I could arrange some sort of "accident" for it. Everyone but Peter would thank me._ ), and the second time, it was to tell her that Diana had vetoed Peter's predictable suggestion of Donatella's and they were going to meet at a Japanese restaurant near NYU instead. Sara spent half a minute wrestling with her residual reluctance before finally texting back to confirm that she would be there. 

At noon, she straightened her desk and left Sterling-Bosch. She caught a cab uptown and had it drop her in front of nondescript building that housed a suite of offices, one of which belonged to Dr. Kirsten Nichols, Ph.D. Sara had been a bit skeptical when, upon her retirement, her previous therapist had referred her to Kirsten, but she'd slowly warmed to her over the last six months. She had a casual style that belied an extremely sharp mind; Sara hadn't realized how much deflection her previous therapist had allowed her to get away with in their sessions until Kirsten had started calling her on it. 

Case in point: fifteen minutes into their session, Kirsten stopped her cold and said, "Okay, Sara. What's really on your mind?"

Sara frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've spent the last fifteen minutes talking to me about absolutely nothing. What's going on?"

Sara shrugged. "Nothing, really."

Kirsten raised an eyebrow at her, leaned back, and re-crossed her legs in the opposite direction. "How's Neal?"

Sara managed a laugh. "Fine, I think. I haven't seen him in a couple of weeks. He and Peter are really busy at work."

"Does it bother you that you haven't seen him in so long?"

Sara shook her head. "Not really. I mean, I'm looking forward to it being over, but it's not like we're out of touch. Why should I be upset if he has to work a lot? I'd rather be with someone who liked his job, since I like mine."

"You shouldn't be upset if it doesn't upset you," Kirsten replied. "But if it does upset you, you should allow yourself to be upset. You certainly don't need to whine about it, but you also shouldn't suppress it. Do you see what I'm saying?"

"I suppose," Sara said dubiously, "but it doesn't upset me, so it's a moot point. Anyway, they're supposed to close their case today. I'm actually going to dinner tonight with his whole team." 

Kirsten raised both eyebrows at that. "Meeting the family, so to speak?"

"No," Sara said firmly - perhaps rather too firmly. Kirsten looked enlightened. "I've already met the entire family," she added, a bit awkwardly. "I've been to dinner at Peter and Elizabeth's house, and I've worked cases with Peter’s team. It's not a big deal." Kirsten nodded but stayed quiet, something Sara had long since learned was one of her favorite tactics. After a few seconds, Sara caved. "All right, so maybe it's a bit of a big deal. Peter brings Elizabeth, and Diana brings her partner, Christie."

Kirsten nodded. "So it's not something just anyone is invited to. It's spouses and partners."

"Yeah. He’s never asked me to anything like this before." Sara shook her head. "I don't know - things have been different since we got back together. Good different," she added, before Kirsten could ask. "A lot fewer secrets on both our sides, I think. Which is good."

Kirsten smiled. "So you said. I sense a 'but' in there somewhere."

"But before, I knew what this was. We were just having a good time. When I found out he was lying to me, it stung, but I'd been half-expecting it the whole time. When he left . . .” She looked away. Kirsten had been around for that part, and Sara didn’t think she needed to say any more about it. She’d been shocked by the depth of her own reaction to Neal’s disappearance. She wasn’t sure how she’d have handled it, if not for her sessions with Kirsten. For the first month after Neal had left, Sara had come to see her twice a week.

Kirsten nodded. "Has he said anything to you about his - to use a very old fashioned phrase - intentions?"

Sara shook her head. "No, not really. I mean, he's in the anklet for another year and a half. After that, who knows?"

"Well, perhaps you should talk to him about that," Kirsten said. "Since you're both turning over a more open and honest leaf."

Sara nodded. "Yeah, maybe." The thought made her squirm. The truth was that she didn't know what he thought about when he thought about the future. She liked to travel, but New York was home, and she had no intention of leaving Sterling-Bosch any time soon. If Neal got the anklet off and decided that Paris was calling . . . 

She wondered how Peter handled it. He and Neal were close, despite everything. Very close. Sara suspected that Peter knew far more about Neal than she did. She wondered how he dealt with it, knowing that Neal might vanish without a trace someday, especially since he’d done it once already. She wondered if Peter just accepted it as part and parcel of caring about Neal Caffrey, or if he'd somehow convinced himself that Neal had changed. 

She and Kirsten moved on to other topics for the remainder of their fifty-minute hour. Sara caught a cab back to the office and ate lunch at her desk while prepping for her three o'clock meeting. She kept her phone out, but Neal must've been head-down in the op he and Peter were running. There were no new messages by the time she went upstairs. 

She was a little early, and no one else was there yet. She set her laptop up in her preferred spot: back to the windows, three seats down from where Winston Bosch always sat. Close enough to get his attention, far enough for him not to notice if she answered an email during the meeting. 

Two minutes after she’d sat down, the door opened and James Robson entered. “Hey Ellis,” he said, setting his laptop up in the seat directly across from hers. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, thanks,” Sara said, not glancing up. There were only a few minutes before the meeting was due to start; surely she wouldn’t be Robson’s captive audience of one for too long. 

“I heard you caught the Rodin case. That’s a juicy one. Any luck so far?”

“Not yet,” Sara said breezily, “but give me time.”

“Well, if you’re finding it challenging, I could take a look, make sure there’s nothing you’re missing.”

Sara did look up then. Robson smiled blandly at her from across the table. “No, thank you.”

“You’re sure your friend Caffrey didn’t have anything to do with it? That would’ve been right up his alley back in the day.”

Sara gritted her teeth. _That_ was all she needed. “I’m sure.”

Robson shrugged. “Well, I suppose you have all the help you need from your friends at the FBI.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean, Robson?”

Robson shook his head. “Nothing. I mean, I think it’s great you never hesitate to use that connection. Whatever works, right?”

It was probably fortunate that the conference room door opened then, and the other investigators came in, as well as Winston Bosch himself. Sara sat back in her chair, eyeing Robson. It was rumored that Bill Horwitz, head of their division, was going to be leaving in a few months for a consultant position elsewhere. Sara had already let it be known that if the position came open, she wished to be considered, and she’d assumed that Robson would put his name in the hat, too. She’d known he’d be a dick about it, and she’d fully expected him to play the Caffrey card; she was an insurance investigator dating a notorious - if possibly reformed - art thief, after all. Before Neal had given back the Raphael, she’d have been worried, but that’d put her - and him - in Bosch’s good graces, and that was all that mattered. 

On the other hand, Sara was distinctly not thrilled with the idea that Robson might be telling people that she couldn’t crack her cases without the help of Peter and his team. That could be just as damaging as unseemly rumors about Neal. It’d been useful to partner with the White Collar division in the past, but she might have to do without them for a while, at least until she beat Robson out for Horwitz’s job. 

That was a bit of a shame, because her newest case would’ve been perfect for Neal. Robson hadn’t been wrong when he’d called it “juicy.” A bronze version of Rodin’s _The Kiss_ , insured for six million dollars to one Henry Sullivan, had disappeared from Sullivan’s Manhattan penthouse three weeks ago. Sara was itching to get her hands on it. NYPD was stymied, but she could afford to be a little more patient. Something would surface, she was sure; priceless sculptures didn’t just steal themselves, and if there was anything Sara had learned over the years, it was that most criminals were not as clever as Neal Caffrey. 

The background checks Sara had requested on Sullivan’s household employees came in while she was listening to Don Mackley give his usual long-winded update on his cases. She glanced over the reports with an eye for anything out of the ordinary and found herself pausing over the information about his housekeeper, Rita Malone. Malone, it seemed, had taken out a large loan three years ago, and she’d been behind on the payments until recently - until about a week after the sculpture disappeared, to be precise, when she’d suddenly paid up and then some, all at once. Sara quietly sent an email to her favorite research assistant and asked her to look into that. Then she sat back, satisfied that this meeting hadn’t been a total waste of time after all.

The meeting was nearly over when her phone went off in her pocket. She slipped her hand in and silenced it, but two minutes later it went off again. She silenced it again, but when it happened a third time, she pulled it out just far enough to see who kept trying to reach her. 

_3 missed calls from Peter Burke_. 

The bottom dropped out of Sara's stomach. There was no reason for Peter to be calling her unless there was some reason Neal _couldn't._

The only reason she didn't excuse herself immediately was that they were already wrapping things up. She ducked out, leaving all of her things behind, and walked as quickly as she could without garnering suspicion to the women's restroom. A quick glance at the stalls told her that it was empty. 

Peter hadn't left a voicemail. She called him back.

"Burke," he said. He sounded out of breath.

"Peter, it's Sara."

"Sara," Peter said, and in those two syllables, Sara knew that there weren't going to be any easy or harmless explanations. "You need to come to Lenox Hill Hospital. Neal's been shot."

Sara closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe in and out, evenly, once. "Right," she said. "Where?"

"Lenox Hill."

"No, Peter, _where was he shot_?"

"Once in the thigh, once in the abdomen. He's - there was a lot of blood." Peter sounded shaken. Sara dug her fingernails into the skin on the inside of her opposite elbow. It hurt, but it kept her from imagining how bad it must have been to shake Peter up. "I'm following the ambulance right now. They wouldn't let me ride with them," he added tightly. 

"Okay," Sara said, swallowing. "Lenox Hill?"

"Yeah. Go to the ER."

"I'll see you there," she said, and hung up. 

Her hands were shaking with adrenaline. Hopefully it would last her a while. She went back to conference room to grab her laptop, then took the elevator upstairs to her office. She locked her computer in her desk and grabbed her purse.

She managed to get out of the building without anyone trying to waylay her and caught a cab out front. She forced herself to look out the window as the car crept through Midtown rush hour traffic, cataloguing every pedestrian, every bicyclist. But her mind went inevitably to another cab ride this like one, eight years ago, when someone at NYPD had called to tell her that her parents had been in a car crash.

It took far longer than it should have to reach the hospital. Sara shoved a wad of cash at the cabbie and dashed into the ER. She didn't see Peter in the waiting area, so she stepped up to the nurses' station. "I'm here for Caffrey, Neal Caffrey," she said. "He was shot - he works for the FBI -"

"Sara," someone said behind her, and Sara turned to see Diana Barrigan approaching through the waiting area. "We're upstairs. They've taken Neal into surgery. Peter sent me down to find you."

"Oh," Sara said. "Thanks." She followed Diana out of the ER and into the hospital proper, where Diana punched the call button for the elevator. They stood in silence until Sara asked, "How bad is it?"

Diana didn’t answer right away. "It looked pretty bad," she said at last, "but I’ve seen people pull through worse. Peter can fill you in."

The waiting area on the fifth floor was almost empty. Peter was there on his cell phone, wearing suit pants and, incongruously, only a white undershirt. _There was a lot of blood_ , she thought, and saw, as clearly as though she'd been there, Peter on his knees next to Neal, putting pressure on one of the wounds, blood spurting and smearing across his jacket, his lucky tie, his white dress shirt.

Peter caught sight of her. "I'll call you back, Jones," he said, and snapped his phone shut. "Sara. How are you?"

"I'm fine," Sara said, a little sharply. "I wasn't shot. How's Neal?"

Peter's mouth settled into a grim line. "They've taken him into surgery. We'll know more in a few hours."

"That's not an answer."

"I know," Peter said. "And if I knew more I'd tell you. For what it's worth, we know the bullet in his leg didn’t hit a major artery because he didn’t bleed out at the scene. If we’re lucky, that’ll just be soft tissue damage. But they won't know until they get in there how much damage the one to his abdomen might've done. They were worried about internal bleeding."

Sara nodded and sat in one of the chairs, clutching her purse in the lap. She listened as Peter told Diana to go back to the office and assist Agent Jones. Diana asked if he needed anything, and Peter said no.

"Did you call Elizabeth?" Diana asked, in an oddly gentle voice.

"From the car," Peter replied. "She'll be here soon. And she called Moz, too, so I imagine he and June won't be far behind. We're fine here, but I need you and Jones to handle things at the Bureau."

"You got it, boss," Diana said. "Call when you hear, all right?" She hugged him and left. 

Peter seated himself in the chair beside Sara. "You need anything?" he asked. "Glass of water?"

"I'm fine," she said. He nodded. She stared at the pile of magazines on the glass coffee table in front of her for a moment, then asked, "What happened?"

Peter sighed. "What did Neal tell you about this case we were working?"

"Not much."

"It was an antiquities smuggling ring. Greek and Roman, mostly from Europe. Right up Neal's alley. Interpol was breathing down our necks, but it was a pretty standard undercover op. We sent him in as a potential buyer and were trying to get the whole thing on tape."

That didn't sound different from a dozen other cases Neal had told Sara about. "What went wrong?" 

Peter sighed. “They made him, I’m not sure how. Things got ugly in a hurry.”

"’Things got ugly’?" Sara repeated incredulously. "Where the hell was Neal's back-up?"

"Too far," Peter said heavily. "We underestimated how dangerous the situation was. The leader of the smuggling ring has a reputation for keeping his hands clean. But when Neal walked into the meet, it wasn’t just him - he’d brought associates. Some of them have mob connections. Neal tried to keep them talking, but they weren’t interested.” He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and shook his head. "I've seen ops go FUBAR in my time, but this must've set a new record. By the time we forced our way in, all the bad guys had rabbited and Neal was bleeding on the ground.”

Sara didn't say anything. Part of her wanted to blame Peter; it was his job to keep Neal safe, after all. Neal wasn't an agent, he hadn't been trained at Quantico, he couldn't protect himself like the agents could. But she wasn't cruel, and she knew that Peter was being harder on himself than she ever could. It wouldn’t help Neal for her to make Peter feel worse. She nodded, wordlessly, and settled in to wait.

They were still sitting silently, side by side, five minutes later when the elevator doors opened and Elizabeth Burke stepped out. Peter stood and kissed her, then hugged her, while Sara tried not to stare at them. "Any news?" Elizabeth asked, when Peter let her go. 

He shook his head. "He'll be in surgery for a few hours, they said. I should probably go back to the office," he added, with tangible reluctance.

Elizabeth grasped both his hands in hers. "Can Diana and Clinton handle it?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should be here. No but's," she added, when Peter opened his mouth to speak. He nodded. Elizabeth glanced past him and caught sight of Sara. "Hey," she said, pulling Peter over to sit beside her. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," Sara said, automatically.

Elizabeth reached over and squeezed her arm. "The Bureau will make sure Neal has the best care. It's going to be all right."

Sara knew Elizabeth had no way of knowing that - no more than she did, probably, and certainly no more than Peter, who had actually spoken with medical professionals about Neal's condition. But she said it with such conviction that Sara almost believed her anyway. She nodded. "Thanks."

The three of them fell silent. A few minutes later, Peter's cell phone rang, and he wandered away to answer it, leaving Elizabeth and Sara effectively alone. "Has this happened before?" Sara asked, in a low voice. “I know the whole Cape Verde story, but I mean . . . otherwise.” Neal had been shot in the thigh then, too, and still had the scar, a white puckering of skin that he always tried to distract her from when they were in bed together. She wondered if he’d been shot in the same thigh, or if he’d have a matching scar on the other one now.

"Otherwise, no, not to Neal," Elizabeth said. "About a year ago, Peter got hurt on a case, digitalis poisoning of all things. It was scary. I think Neal and I were in this very same room for a couple hours, while the doctors got him stabilized. And once, when we were younger - this must have been before Peter started chasing Neal, because we hadn't been married very long - Peter was shot. In the chest, though he was very lucky and it didn’t collapse a lung or hit anything vital."

 _What did you do?_ Sara wanted to ask, but she didn't get the chance. The elevator doors opened again, this time revealing Neal's landlady, June, and Mozzie. Elizabeth stood and hugged both of them, quickly sharing what she knew of Neal's condition. Sara forced herself to stand as well, accepting June's hug out of surprise more than anything else. 

"Everything will be all right, dear," June said, patting her shoulder. "Neal's made of strong stuff."

She didn't know quite what to say to that. She nodded, rather than speaking, and sat back down as June and Mozzie pulled two chairs over. She could feel a spot of pain beginning to throb behind one of her eyes, and she found herself mostly tuning out the low thrum of the conversation around her. 

Sara was freaking out. She didn't know how the rest of them were managing to sit there, _talking_ , when she couldn't manage to string two thoughts together that didn't have anything to do with Neal lying on an operating table while a surgeon dug two bullets out of him. Neal could die on that operating table. That phone call this morning might be the last time she ever spoke to him. And that night two weeks ago, when he'd stayed over at her place and made her late for the work with shower sex the next morning, might be the last time she ever saw him. 

"Excuse me," she murmured, and stood.

The women's restroom was empty. Sara ran a paper towel under the tap and pressed it against the back of her neck. She leaned against the sink and closed her eyes. This was ridiculous, she thought. It wasn't that long ago that her former fiancé had held a knife to her throat. She was stronger than this.

The door opened. "Sara?" Elizabeth said, sticking her head in. "Are you all right?"

Sara cleared her throat and straightened up. "Yes," she said, dropping the paper towel into the trash and reaching for the soap dispenser. "I'm fine."

Elizabeth stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her. "It's okay if you're not, you know. I'm not. Neither is Peter."

Sara shook her head, drying her hands on the towel. "I just needed a minute."

"Are you hungry? June and Mozzie were going to go out and get some dinner for us."

Sara frowned. "What time is it?" 

"Almost seven."

Sara blinked. She'd had no idea so much time had passed. "I'm not hungry, thanks."

"You should eat something," Elizabeth said, gently. "That was one of the first things I learned when Peter was shot. I had to take care of myself, or I wouldn't be any good to him at all."

Sara shrugged. "Yeah, thanks. Whatever the rest of you are having is fine." Elizabeth nodded but didn't leave. "What?" Sara finally asked, impatiently. 

"Nothing," Elizabeth said, then hesitated. "Do you have anyone you'd like to call? A friend or - or someone?"

"No," Sara said, wearily. "I really appreciate the concern, but I'll be fine. This is all just a bit overwhelming."

Elizabeth nodded. "I understand. But you know you're not alone. We all care about Neal.”

"I know," Sara said firmly. "Thank you." Elizabeth was just being kind, she knew, but she couldn't help the little stab of resentment she felt. That was just the sort of woman Elizabeth Burke _was_ , she suspected - the sort who always knew how to help, who had endless empathy and patience, even for a conman her husband had spent years chasing. The sort who knew exactly what to do when her husband was shot and probably had a dozen close girlfriends she could call to come and sit with her at the hospital while she waited. 

Elizabeth eyed her for a moment. "Right. Okay, then."

The door to the bathroom opened, and June stepped inside. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I thought you'd want to know that Neal's out of surgery. Peter's speaking with the doctor now about how it went." 

"Oh," Elizabeth said, "yes, of course. Thank you, June."

"Yes, thanks," Sara echoed automatically, and followed Elizabeth out of the restroom. Peter stood off to the side, speaking to a gray-haired man in surgical scrubs. Sara shook her head when Elizabeth tried to get her to sit, and tried to read Peter's body language, to understand how bad the news was. It couldn't have been too terrible, she decided; Peter was nodding, and he looked serious but not upset. 

Finally, he shook the doctor's hand. The doctor turned and disappeared through the door into the back, and Peter came back to them. "He's stable," was the first thing he said. "He's in the ICU, and he'll probably be there until tomorrow at least, but he's stable."

The rush of relief was so strong that Sara almost couldn’t breathe through it. She sat abruptly, like a puppet with all its strings cut. 

"The bullet to the abdomen lacerated his spleen, which caused a lot of internal bleeding," Peter went on. "They had to remove it. The one to his thigh managed to avoid both his femoral artery and his femur, but it did some pretty significant damage to his quad muscle. It'll take him a while to recover, but his surgeon was optimistic."

There was a buzz of reaction from June, Elizabeth, and Mozzie, but Sara could barely hear it over the rushing in her ears. Neal would be all right. It would take a long time, but he'd be all right. "Can we see him?" she asked, when she could finally speak again. 

Peter frowned. "They're pretty strict about visitors in the ICU."

And she wasn't family, Sara realized. Peter was Neal's medical next-of-kin, but she wasn't Neal's anything, not on paper. "Oh."

Elizabeth reached over and squeezed her hand. "But I'm sure Peter will see what he can do," she said, looking at Peter rather than Sara. 

"Ah, right," Peter said, only a bit awkwardly. "Of course."

Whatever magic Peter worked, it did the trick. An hour later, a nurse led her and Peter into the ICU. Each small ICU room had a glass window that looked out onto the nurses' station; Neal’s was distinguished by the presence of an armed U.S. Marshal at the door. Sara raised an eyebrow at Peter. 

He looked grim. “We still haven’t caught any of the men responsible, and you never know when there are mob connections involved. The guard is just in case.” 

At the door to Neal's room, the nurse stopped them and said, "Mr. Caffrey is conscious but on very heavy painkillers, so he's likely not to be very responsive. One at a time, please. No more than five minutes."

Peter and Sara looked at each other. "You first," Peter said, after a brief hesitation. 

"Thanks," Sara said, and stepped into the room. It was dim, lit mostly by the lights from the monitors around Neal's bed. They were reassuringly lively and regular, and his heart monitor beeped steadily. Neal lay on the bed, still and pale. He had an oxygen cannula in his nose and an IV line running to the back of his hand. His eyes were closed, but when Sara seated herself in the single bedside chair and carefully took his hand in hers, they opened, just barely. 

"Hey there," she said softly. 

_Sara_. His lips formed her name, but no sound emerged. His fingers tightened on hers, almost imperceptibly. 

"Everything's okay," she said, unsure if anyone had bothered to tell him anything about his own condition. "They had to remove your spleen, but you'll be okay." She swallowed, feeling a sudden lump in her throat. "You owe me dinner and champagne," she added, voice cracking. 

Neal frowned faintly, fingers tightening on hers again. Sara blinked and used her thumb to wipe away the tear that threatened to fall. She was conscious of Peter at the window, watching. She tried to speak, but she couldn't quite manage it. Neal's eyes drifted shut again. 

When her five minutes were up, Sara stood. Neal's eyes cracked open again, following her. "I have to go," she said. "Peter wants to see you. But I'll be back as soon as they'll let me, all right?" She hesitated, then bent to kiss him on the forehead. 

"You okay?" Peter asked, when she emerged.

"Yes, fine. Go ahead, your turn."

Sara watched as Peter went in and seated himself in the bedside chair. He seemed to be much more adept at the one-sided conversation than she had been. He gripped Neal's hand in his, and, after a minute or two, lifted his other hand to rest on the crown of Neal's head, thumb stroking over Neal's temple. Sara bit her lip, feeling suddenly voyeuristic, and looked away. 

Eventually, Peter stood and came back out. "He'll be more with it tomorrow," he said. "I have you on the approved visitors list, so you can come back then."

Sara nodded. "Thanks."

Peter hesitated. "Can I give you a ride home?"

Sara frowned. Elizabeth had left already with Mozzie and June, but her own house wasn't anywhere near Peter's route back to Brooklyn. "I'm not on your way."

"I know, but . . ." Peter glanced sideways, through the window into Neal's room. "I'd like to talk," he said at last.

Sara had a suspicion where this was going. It was probably best to get it over with. "Okay.”

It was late enough that all the rush hour traffic had dispersed. Sara sat quietly, letting Peter make the first move. He waited until they were stopped at a light and then said, "So. How are you?"

Sara nearly growled. "I'd be better if people stopped asking me that."

"Right. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Look, Sara . . ."

The light turned green. When they'd cleared the intersection and Peter still hadn't finished his sentence, Sara said, "Peter, whatever it is, just spit it out."

Peter nodded, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead at the road. "Okay.” He drew a deep breath. “Sara, something like this really tests a relationship. I know you and Neal have been trying to figure things out the last few months, but I also know things are still pretty up in the air. I need to know if you're going to be there for him."

Sara had been prepared for something like this from Peter, but that didn’t make it less insulting. "You think I'd cut and run on him when he was flat on his back in a hospital bed?"

"I think you've done a very good job at keeping Neal at arm's length."

"That's not fair, Peter." It really wasn't. Ever since they’d decided to give it another shot, she and Neal had been much more open with each other. Or at least Sara thought they had. If Peter thought otherwise, then perhaps Neal did, too. 

"Maybe not," Peter acknowledged, "but this isn't going to be easy. I need to know if you can handle it."

"Your faith in me is overwhelming. What the hell kind of a person do you think I am? Do you actually think -"

"I think you are strong, capable, and confident," Peter said, surprising Sara into silence. "I also think you’re used to making your own way in the world, and you don’t really know how to be someone’s partner. I think you hate feeling vulnerable or dealing with anyone else's vulnerability. I think that sometimes, you have trouble being kind."

Sara stared. “Jesus, Peter, don't feel you have to hold back."

Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't have time to spare your feelings. There is nothing dignified or elegant about recovering from a gunshot wound. Neal is going to need people to help him through this. If you can't do it, I have to know."

Sara pressed her lips together in mute fury. The worst of it, she thought, was that Peter was right. Now that the immediate danger was past and she knew Neal would be all right, she'd started to think about how this was likely to impact her own life. Was she supposed to get up and go to work tomorrow? Pretend nothing had happened? She didn't think she could. But the alternative was - what, exactly? Personal leave? If she did that now, she could probably kiss her promotion to division head good-bye. What about when Neal was released from the hospital? Who would look after him while he recovered? Peter was right - none of this was going to be dignified. Neal was going to hate every minute of it, once the doctors let him up from beneath the fog of painkillers. Whether Sara could handle it was a question that begged serious consideration.

They turned onto her block at last, and she started digging in her purse for her keys. Peter double-parked in front of her building but left the engine running. "Sara?" 

"I need to think about it," Sara said, hating herself a little. "I'll let you know tomorrow."

Peter nodded. "Okay. Have a good night."

"You, too," Sara said, and climbed out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting fic on your birthday is, I would like to say, the best thing ever. 
> 
> Thanks to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti for the beta!

Sara had already been awake for hours when her alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning. She slapped it silent and fought the urge to bury her head beneath her pillow. _Coffee_ , she thought, staring blearily at the ceiling. _Coffee will help._

It did, if only marginally. She drank one cup sitting at her kitchen table, then took a shower and poured herself another to sip while she dressed. She eyed the line of designer dresses in her closet before shutting it and going to her dresser. She picked out a pair of jeans and a white cashmere sweater she knew Neal was particularly fond of. In the bathroom, she dabbed concealer under her eyes to try and hide the shadows.

By then it was seven-thirty. Sara seated herself on her sofa with her cell phone in hand. While lying awake at four o’clock that morning, she’d made her decision; now it was time to follow through on it. She called her boss’s office at Sterling-Bosch; at this hour, Winston Bosch himself wasn't in yet, but his admin was. "Good morning, Joe," Sara said, when he answered. "It's Sara Ellis."

"Good morning, Ms. Ellis. What can I do for you?"

"I was calling to let Mr. Bosch know that I won't be in. I need to take a personal day."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, Ms. Ellis, did you say -"

"A personal day, yes," Sara said, very evenly. "I'm entitled to two in the course of the calendar year."

"Yes, of course. I'll let Mr. Bosch know."

"Thank you," Sara said, and hung up. There. Done. That hadn't been too painful. She wondered what the reaction would be if she needed to take considerably more than just one day. More horror than shock, she suspected - or perhaps simply indifference. She was one investigator among dozens at Sterling-Bosch, after all. They'd just distribute her cases amongst the others. 

Her second call was easier. She got Kirsten's voicemail, since she didn't have an assistant and it was far too early for her to be in. "Hi Kirsten, this is Sara Ellis," she said. "I'd like to schedule an extra appointment with you this week, if I can. It's not an emergency exactly, but - well, let me know if it's possible. Thanks." 

She glanced at the clock on the oven. Quarter to eight. Too early still for visitors in the ICU, but after a restless night in her apartment, she didn't want to be there any longer. She put on a pair of decidedly non-designer flats and slipped a mystery novel and a bottle of Evian into her purse. Then she hesitated for nearly a minute before going into her bedroom and taking a box down from the shelf in the very back of her closet. 

She hadn't looked at its contents in years, not since a year or so after her parents had died. Her entire childhood, reduced to the size of a small packing carton. There were two or three photo albums from the years before her sister had disappeared, when her mother had still bothered to document family events. Otherwise, there were only a handful of photos, mostly of her - at sixteen, at eighteen, at her graduation from Smith. She'd taken a photo of her parents that day, too, both of them looking decades older than they did in the albums.

She turned the photos over and set them aside. Beneath the albums was a layer of childhood memorabilia: programs from plays she'd been in, debate medals from high school, her National Merit Scholar certificate. And at the very bottom, a well-loved and threadbare stuffed rabbit, with a missing nose and one loose eye. She had a brief internal struggle before she finally succeeded in telling the part of her that thought she was being sentimental and ridiculous to shut up. It _was_ sentimental and ridiculous, but that didn't make it wrong. She stuffed the rabbit into her bag, set her apartment's alarm, and left. 

Central Park was the much same as it had been the day before. Sara herself felt as though years had passed since then. She took her time, since she didn't think she should get to the hospital much before nine, and was just passing the lake when her cell phone rang. 

It was Kirsten. "Good morning," Sara said. 

"Good morning," Kirsten said. "I got your message. Is everything okay?"

"Not really," Sara said. She decided this wasn't a conversation she wanted to have while walking and sat on a bench. "Neal . . . got shot yesterday."

"Oh God, Sara, I'm so sorry to hear that," Kirsten said. "Is he all right?"

"No," Sara sighed, "but he will be." 

There was a brief pause. "Are _you_ all right?"

Somehow, that question wasn't nearly as irritating coming from Kirsten as it had been from everyone else. "Not really."

"No, no, of course not. I'm sorry, that was a silly question to ask. Well, I could get you in today. I had a cancellation at two."

"No, not today," Sara said. "I'd just be a mess if I came in to see you today."

"Sometimes you need to give yourself permission to be a mess, Sara," Kirsten said gently. "I certainly don't mind, if that's what you need."

"No, no," Sara said. "Um, Friday?" That was two days from now. Surely she'd have her head a bit more together by then. 

"I have an eleven o'clock. Does that work for you?"

"Yes, thanks. I'll see you then."

"See you then. And in the meantime, take care of yourself, all right?"

"I will," Sara promised, and hung up. She entered the appointment into her phone and sat for a moment, staring at her calendar. Everything work-related was in red, everything personal was in blue; the calendar was a sea of red, except for her weekly therapy session and her bimonthly mani-pedi. 

That had never struck her as depressing before. Sure, she'd had a bit of a meltdown after she'd had to fake her own death and her office - i.e. Bryan, her fiancé - had sent _carnations_ to the funeral home, but she'd gotten sucked back into her workaholic habits pretty quickly. And she had gotten a life, or at least she'd gotten Neal. She didn't enter her dates with him into the calendar; she had no trouble at all remembering them. 

Still. It was food for thought. 

The hospital was only two blocks beyond the eastern edge of the park. It was just after nine when Sara entered the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor. She signed in at the nurses' station, as per ICU protocol; seeing that she was there for Neal, the nurse said, "Mr. Caffrey already has two visitors. You'll have to wait outside until they're done."

Sara glanced toward Neal's room and was unsurprised to see Peter and Elizabeth in with him. "Of course," she said. "Thanks." 

The guard at the door gave her a silent nod, and she smiled back cautiously. Neal looked better this morning, she saw through the glass. He was still very pale and had a glazed-over look that bespoke heavy painkillers, but it looked like he was at least answering back when Peter and Elizabeth spoke to him. Sara didn't mean to interrupt their visit, but Peter glanced up and caught sight of her. He said something to Neal, squeezed his hand, and kissed his wife on the cheek before coming out. "Hey," he said, and then gave her a bemused once over. "You're looking casual."

"I'm not going into work. I took a personal day."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "I see. Have you thought about what I said, then?"

"Among other things," Sara said. She glanced into Neal's room, where Elizabeth was offering him water from a cup with a straw. “I’m still thinking.”

Peter nodded. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry I was so harsh."

"I understand. Yesterday was a bad day." To say the very least.

Peter grimaced in agreement, then glanced at his watch. "Damn, I have to go - ten o'clock meeting. I'll be back this evening." He hesitated. "A word of advice? Talk to El. She's been through this before."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if you've noticed, Peter, but your wife and I are very different people."

"It hasn't escaped my attention, no," Peter replied dryly. "Just think about it, okay?"

"I will," Sara said, reluctantly. Peter gave her a look and she held her hands up. "Really, I will."

"Good," Peter said, and left, the door to the ICU swinging shut behind him.

Sara drew a deep breath and stepped into Neal's room. Neal's eyes were closed; Elizabeth was reading gossip headlines to him out of a dog-eared _People_ magazine, but she stopped when Sara entered. "Hey," Elizabeth said, and then touched Neal's hand. "Neal, sweetie, Sara's here." Elizabeth stood, clearly ceding her the bedside chair, even as Sara shook her head to try and stop her.

Neal opened his eyes. "Sara," he said, in a hoarse voice. He sounded faintly surprised. 

"Hey," Sara said, stepping closer to the bed. Elizabeth slid around her toward the door. "How are you?"

"Alive," Neal said, grimacing. "Well-medicated." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Glad to see you." His eyes slid away, tracking Elizabeth. "El?"

"I'm just going to get a cup of coffee," Elizabeth said, smiling at them both. "I'll be back in a little while. You need anything?" Neal shook his head. "Sara?"

"No, thanks," Sara said, sinking into the bedside chair. Elizabeth nodded and left. Sara took Neal's hand in hers, careful of the IV line. 

There was a brief, slightly awkward silence. "Thanks for coming by," Neal said, before Sara could figure out how to break it. "How long do you have?"

"All day," Sara said. "I'm not going into work. I took a personal day."

Neal blinked. "Why?"

" _Why?_ " Sara repeated. "You were _shot_ , Caffrey. Twice. That's why."

"No, I know, I just - you're really going to stay here all day?" 

"That was the plan," Sara said, suddenly feeling foolish. She'd just assumed - but Neal had Elizabeth, obviously, who was orders of magnitude better at this than she could ever be. "If you'd rather I didn't -"

"No," Neal said, tightening his grip on her hand. It was firmer than it had been the night before, but still too weak. "No, no, please. Stay."

Sara nodded. She leaned on the mattress and tentatively reached out with her free hand to stroke Neal's hair out of his face. It was a little lank and greasy already. "So, tell me. How are you really?"

He leaned into her touch like a cat, his eyes drifting shut again. "Not so bad. Kinda woozy from the drugs. Might fall asleep on you, 'specially if you keep doing that." He nuzzled her wrist. "Sorry about last night."

"You can't possibly think I'm mad at you."

"No," Neal said, in a voice heavy with sleep. His eyes were barely open. "Jus' not what I planned."

"Me neither, but considering some of the alternatives, I'll take it. You scared the hell out of me."

He forced his eyes open. "I'm sorry."

"Do it again and I'll kick your ass," she said. He smiled, a bit dopily, and closed his eyes again. Within a minute or two, his breathing had evened out and his head had fallen heavily to the side. Sara pulled her hand away and sat staring at him, feeling suddenly and foolishly fond. Lying in a hospital bed with two bullet holes in him, and he apologized to her for ruining their night. She wasn't sure whether it made her want kiss him or hit him.

She had the feeling he would be out for a while. She picked her bag up and pulled out her mystery novel. Then, after only a brief hesitation, she took the little rabbit out as well, and tucked it in between Neal's arm and his side, pulling the blankets over it so it was covered up. Neal didn't stir. Sara settled back in the chair with her book.

She'd read only a few pages when Elizabeth returned. She cleared her throat to catch Sara’s attention, then caught her eye and gestured outside the room. Sara dog-eared the page she was on, set her book down, and followed. 

"Hey," Elizabeth said. "How are you?"

"Fine," Sara said, with what she thought was admirable patience. "Yourself?"

"Tired," Elizabeth said with half a smile. "But I took the morning off, so I don't have to be anywhere for a while. I was wondering, have you eaten breakfast? Neal'll probably be out for a few hours. There's a diner just down the block with better coffee than the hospital cafeteria."

Sara pursed her lips. "Peter put you up to this, didn't he?"

Elizabeth looked a bit sheepish. "He might've said something. Sorry, he's not the most subtle man in the world. But what do you say, breakfast? My treat?"

There was not really any way to gracefully decline. Neal wouldn't panic if he woke up and she wasn't holding his hand. "All right," she said. "Let me just grab my purse."

The diner down the block was bright and clean, with red vinyl booths. The smell of coffee and fried potatoes hung heavily in the air, and Sara suddenly realized how hungry she was. There were only a handful of people seated at the counter when they came in and almost no one in the booths. "Sit anywhere!" the waitress called, and the two of them snagged a corner booth. The waitress brought them menus and water glasses. "Something to drink?" she asked. 

"Coffee for me," Elizabeth said. "Sara?"

"Orange juice, please," Sara said. As much as she would have liked another cup of coffee, she'd already had two. She was jittery enough right now without more caffeine. 

Silence fell as they studied the menus. Sara decided what she wanted and sat back, one foot twitching nervously under the table. The waitress returned with their drinks and pulled out her pad. "Know what you want?"

"Egg white omelette," Sara said, sliding her menu across to the waitress, "with spinach, mushrooms and cheddar. Wheat toast, please."

"And I'll have the short stack of blueberry pancakes," Elizabeth said, stacking her menu on top of Sara's, "with the fruit cup."

"Got it," the waitress said, grabbed the menus, and left. 

"So," Elizabeth said. She wrapped her hands around her plain white coffee mug. "I hear my husband talked to you last night when he took you home."

"You could say that," Sara said warily.

Elizabeth sighed. "For the record, I told him not to do it. I told him nothing good could come of ambushing you when you were in shock, but Peter is, well, _Peter_."

Sara shrugged and took a sip of orange juice. "It's okay. I was pretty angry at the time, but it made me think about some things." She hesitated. Elizabeth sipped her coffee and waited. "When this happened to Peter," she said at last, "what did you do?"

"Well, I was at a rather different place in my life," Elizabeth said, thoughtfully. "At the time I was working for a gallery as their assistant manager, and I had a very understanding boss. I called and told him what'd happened, and he told me to take as long as I needed. I think I took one week off completely and worked two more mostly from home. I probably could've gone back that third week," she added with a laugh, "but Peter is a terrible patient, as you might imagine. I didn't trust him not to paint the house or rewire the garage door."

Sara could imagine that all too well. "Were you by yourself?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Peter's parents were both around. His mom was still alive then, and she helped me a lot. And his dad was great about coming over and helping keep Peter occupied. They watched hours of baseball out on the back porch. So no, I wasn't alone - and you won't be either," she added. "I don't know if Peter made that clear last night."

"He didn't, but I do know. That's not the problem."

Elizabeth nodded. "What is it, then?"

Sara swallowed. "I'm just . . . I'm going to be terrible at this," she confessed. "Peter was right about a lot of things last night, and that was one of them." She shook her head and looked away, out the window of the diner. "This is going to be a disaster, I just know it."

Their food arrived at precisely that moment, of course, and Elizabeth waited until the waitress had left again before answering. "It isn't going to be a disaster," she said, while spreading whipped butter over her pancakes. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy, because it's not. Those three weeks while Peter was recovering were the hardest in our whole first year of marriage. But we got through them, and so will you and Neal."

"Neal and I are not you and Peter. We're not married, for one, and I'm . . ." _Nothing like you,_ she thought. 

"Hmm," Elizabeth said, but otherwise didn't reply. Sara forced herself to take a bite of her omelette and then to butter a slice of toast. Finally, Elizabeth said, "Okay, one thing at a time. You took today off. What are you going to do about tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Sara admitted. "I have a lot on my plate at work right now. I feel like that shouldn't matter, but it does. Sterling-Bosch isn't a great fit for people who have other priorities. They'd let me take personal leave, but I don't know what it'd mean for me once I went back." Not to mention, there was the Sullivan case, her missing Rodin. The thought of handing it over to one of her colleagues made her grit her teeth.

Elizabeth nodded. "I see."

"On the other hand . . ." Sara picked a mushroom out of her omelette. "I can't imagine going in tomorrow and pretending everything is normal."

"Could you cut back? Work part-time?" 

"Maybe," Sara said dubiously. "I don't work normal business hours to begin with, but I also work a lot more than forty hours a week." She sighed. "I suppose I should speak with my boss about it."

"Perhaps you should speak to _Neal_ about it," Elizabeth said pointedly. "The two of you should probably work this out together, if you can. But don't do anything you don't want to. I took time off, because I could and because I wanted to. If you don't want to, don't do it. You'll start resenting Neal for it, and that's never good."

"True," Sara ceded. 

"And if Peter says anything to you about it," Elizabeth added, with a certain gleam in her eye, "you send him to me, and I'll straighten him out."

Sara smiled. "I can handle Peter. I know he means well."

"He does," Elizabeth agreed, spearing a piece of cantaloupe onto her fork. "But he's very protective of Neal, and this has him really shaken up."

"I know," Sara said, sitting back and cutting into her omelette. "I'm trying very hard not to be insulted that he seems to think I'd break Neal's heart while he was recovering from a gunshot wound. _Two_ gunshot wounds."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Don't take it personally. He'll settle down in a couple of days, when he sees that things are going to be fine."

To Sara's relief, the conversation moved on then, to other things. She asked Elizabeth about her work, and Elizabeth told her about a gallery opening she'd recently organized. Sara had always thought event management was simply calling a caterer and coordinating the color of the tablecloths with the flowers, but it seemed she was mistaken. It was not the sort of thing she'd ever be good at, but it sounded a lot more challenging than she'd expected.

Elizabeth paid the check over Sara's protests. "I said it was my treat," she said firmly, then glanced at her watch. "And now I have to run."

"Okay," Sara said, feeling a little bereft. "Thanks for breakfast. And the advice."

Elizabeth smiled, and for a moment, Sara was afraid she'd hug her. But all she said was, "Anytime."

After seeing Elizabeth into a cab, Sara walked back to the hospital. She wondered what she was supposed to do with herself if Neal slept all afternoon. She had her mystery novel, but that wouldn't last her very long. She wished she'd thought to bring her laptop. 

To Sara's surprise, Neal was awake when she returned. A nurse was in with him, and Sara assumed it was routine until she got a look at his face. He looked worse than he had that morning, his complexion an alarming shade of gray, his breathing shallow and rapid. He had a pink, kidney-shaped basin clutched in one hand. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"S'okay," Neal said, hoarsely. He swallowed hard. "Just not doing so well with the morphine."

Sara looked to the nurse - James, according to his badge - for confirmation. He nodded. "Nausea and dizziness are common side effects," he said. "I'm going to give you an antiemetic, Mr. Caffrey. We also have some ginger ale on hand, if you think you can keep it down."

Neal nodded, slowly. "Thanks." The nurse left, and Neal turned his head on the pillow to look at Sara. "This sucks," he said succinctly. “Though I guess it’s better than no painkillers at all.”

Sara brushed the hair out of his eyes and then linked her fingers through his. "Not a lot of morphine on Cape Verde?” 

“I’m sure there is,” Neal said, “but not for convicted felons on the run.” He swallowed again, almost convulsively, and lay very still with his eyes closed until the nurse returned, syringe in one hand and a can of ginger ale and a cup in the other. 

"This should start to work for you very quickly," James said, as he injected Neal’s IV line with the syringe. "I'm going to leave the ginger ale here. I'm sure your friend can help you when you decide you want it." Sara nodded and gave Neal's hand a squeeze. "I'll be back in a little while to check on you. I spoke with your doctor, and she says that if you manage to sit up this afternoon, we can move you to a regular room this evening." Neal nodded almost imperceptibly, without opening his eyes. 

Sara sat awkwardly. She didn't think Neal was in the mood to be distracted with idle chatter, but there had to be something she could do, she thought, glancing around the room helplessly. Her gaze landed on a washcloth, folded neatly on Neal’s bedside tray-table. 

Neal murmured in protest when she pulled her hand away. "I'll be right back," she assured him, and stood to wet the cloth in the room's small, stainless steel sink. She folded it up in thirds and draped it over his eyes. He sighed, and his hand, lying beside him on the bed, reached for hers. 

There was, she had to admit, something almost satisfying about this. And that was very strange, all things considered. She didn't garden. Her houseplants withered and died. She'd never had a pet, because she didn't feel the need for companionship enough to deal with the mess and the dirt and the fur and the _fuss_. She had never, as far back as she could remember, wanted children, and her only moments of regret about it had come when she was much younger and her parents were still alive. But they'd died before she’d had to disappoint them that way, and she'd never regretted the decision since. It had been such a non-issue between her and Bryan that it had never even come up. 

And yet. There was something satisfying about the fact that Neal had reached for her, that he so clearly wanted her there with him. There was a tiny part of her that wondered if she wasn't just a stand-in for Peter - or Elizabeth, even - but she didn't think so. She took his hand in hers and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. 

Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes later, Neal stirred, pulling his hand away to push the damp cloth further up his forehead, so he could look at her. "Hi," he said, sounding a little embarrassed.

"Hey there," she said. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," he said. He looked it, too, Sara though. He was still very pale, but at least he’d lost that dreadful gray tinge. "Think I could handle the ginger ale now." Sara cracked the can open and poured some into a cup with a straw. She wondered if she should offer to hold the cup for him, as Elizabeth had that morning, but his hand seemed steady enough when he took it from her. "Thanks. You know, you should be careful. You're going to get a reputation as a softie."

Sara snorted. "Why? Because I mopped your brow? Don't get any ideas."

"That," Neal said, "and also this." He tugged the blankets down to reveal the little rabbit Sara had tucked there earlier.

Sara flushed but stubbornly shook her head. "You don’t have any reason to think that came from me."

"Which is all the reason I need," Neal said, with infuriating smugness. "El or even Peter would've just given it to me."

"Maybe Mozzie sneaked in while you were asleep."

"I've never gotten a gift from Moz that wasn't a bottle of wine or Russian military surplus. Face it, Repo. You're busted."

"All right, all right," she said, raising her hands. "Guilty as charged. Don't let it get out."

"So does the little guy have a name?” She pressed her lips together. “Wait, don't tell me," he said. "Is it Peter? Peter Rabbit?"

"It might be," Sara muttered. She felt as though she were blushing bright red to the tips of her ears. Neal looked delighted. "I swear to God, Neal, if you tell _anyone_ -"

"I won't, I won't," he assured her hastily, tucking the rabbit beneath the blankets again. "Your secret's safe with me."

"It'd better be," she muttered.

"And, thanks," he said, looking a bit uncomfortable himself.

"You're welcome." 

A slightly awkward silence ensued. Neal sipped his ginger ale slowly, looking drained, and Sara thought he might just fall asleep again. But eventually he cleared his throat and asked, "Where'd you go earlier?"

"Elizabeth took me out to breakfast."

"Oh," Neal said, sounding surprised. "That was nice of her."

"Yes, it was," Sara said. "We talked a bit about things."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "What things?"

"Well, you know . . ." Sara squirmed a bit. _Perhaps you should talk to Neal_ , Elizabeth had said. It felt a little unfair to lay this on him now, but she supposed he had the right to know. "We talked about what she did when Peter was shot, how she handled it."

Neal frowned. "When was Peter shot?"

"Years ago, I guess. Before he started chasing you. Anyway, I've been thinking about how much help you're going to need once you're no longer in the hospital. I've been trying to figure out whether I should take a leave of absence from Sterling-Bosch for at least a couple of weeks."

Neal looked stunned. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"A leave of absence from Sterling-Bosch? For me?"

"Yes, Caffrey," she said, glaring a little. "There's no need to act so damn surprised. You were _shot_ , you know. I'm not made of stone."

"Sorry. I just . . . I think I assumed that I would just stay with Peter and Elizabeth once I was out of the hospital. I knew you'd be around," he added quickly, "but I didn't think you'd want to be so involved. We haven't been back together very long, and I know you're, um -"

"Me?" Sara suggested wryly.

"Yeah. No offense."

"None taken," she said. "And believe me, I know all of that. But I don't think visiting you every couple of days at Peter and Elizabeth's house would be enough." It wasn't that she thought Peter and Elizabeth were incapable of taking care of Neal; far from it. But the idea of someone else looking after Neal while she went about her life as though nothing had happened made her feel almost . . . jealous. Which was ridiculous, Sara realized, but that didn’t seem to matter one bit.

Neal shook his head. "I'll be okay."

"I mean for me, Neal. I don't know if it'd be enough for _me_." She shook her head. "Look, I - I care about you. Yesterday really scared me. I don't want to just carry on like it didn't happen. I _can't_ carry on like it didn't happen." Her voice cracked embarrassingly, and she looked away. 

When she finally forced herself to look back, Neal was staring at her as though he'd never seen her before. "Hey," he said, reaching out to recapture her hand. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"You are not okay," she replied, digging in her purse for a tissue. "You're lying in a bed in ICU with an IV in your arm. You’re hooked up to a _heart_ monitor. You bled all over Peter's clothes -"

"I know," Neal said, looking infuriatingly satisfied. "I ruined his lucky tie. If anything good comes out of this, it's that Peter will be forced to find himself a new lucky tie."

"It's not funny, Neal," Sara said sharply. "You could have died. So no, I am _not_ okay with visiting you every couple of days at Peter and Elizabeth's."

"Okay," Neal said, squeezing her hand. "Okay. That's good, because I'm not sure I'd be okay with it, either."

"You sure seemed like you would be just now," Sara said, hiding her face by dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

"I didn't want you to feel you had to do anything you didn't want to."

"I won't," she said. "I just - I didn't realize until just now what I wanted to do." She wiped her nose and then dropped the tissue into the wastebasket by the bed. "Sorry. It's stupid of me to fall apart like this."

"No, it's not," Neal said, very quietly. "And it's nice to know you care so much."

"I do," she said, not quite looking him in the eye.

"Me too," he said, and then tugged at her hand to pull her in closer. "Come here. If you're willing to brave my dragon breath."

"I'll live," she told him, and kissed him, briefly, once. Then she managed to hitch her hip onto the narrow bed, and rested her head against his shoulder, gingerly. 

They lay like that for a little while, just quietly breathing together. It was, perhaps, Sara reflected, the most intimate they'd ever been together, more so even than sex: a quiet, undemanding intimacy that stole her breath away. The unpleasant shiver of jealousy that she’d felt earlier in the pit of her stomach vanished with the knowledge that he wanted her with him, not as a stand-in for anyone else, but just because she was herself.

Neal slept for most of the afternoon. Sara sat in the bedside chair and read her mystery novel, then answered a few work emails on her Blackberry. At four o’clock, when Nurse James came back to wake Neal for vitals and to see about having him sit up, she stepped outside the ICU to call her boss’s office and request an appointment for tomorrow morning. 

“You’re in luck,” Joe said. “His nine-thirty canceled about an hour ago. Shall I tell him what it’s about?”

 _Oh, you know_ , Sara thought, feeling slightly hysterical, _career suicide. That’s all._ “I have a confidential matter I need to discuss with him.”

“All right, then. Tomorrow, nine-thirty.”

“Thank you.” Sara hung up. Perhaps she should call Kirsten and see if she had an opening for tomorrow. Then she could go lose her mind in a nice safe space for an hour before having to come back here and pretend to be happy as a clam about having just blown up her career with Sterling-Bosch.

Before she could decide to make the call, the elevator doors opened and Peter stepped out. He had a briefcase, packed to bursting, in one hand and under his other arm, a bunch of files that were clearly on the verge of falling. Sara darted forward to rescue them. “Thanks,” Peter said. “It’s a miracle I made it this far without dropping them. How’s Neal?”

Sara supposed it counted as an improvement that he’d progressed from asking how she was to asking how Neal was. “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she replied, managing to juggle the files into some semblance of balance. “He had a reaction to the pain meds earlier, but one of the nurses got him sorted out.”

Peter nodded. “Diana and Jones kicked me out of the office, but I still have reams of paperwork. I thought I’d sit with him while I did it, if you need a break.”

Sara shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m all right. They were talking about moving him to a regular room in a bit, actually.”

“That’s great,” Peter said. He moved to go into the ICU, but then he stopped and looked at Sara. “By the way, El mentioned you went to breakfast with her.”

 _Great._ “I did,” Sara said evenly.

“Did you -”

“You know, Peter,” Sara interrupted, “I understand that you and Neal are close. I understand that you’re protective of him, and I understand that you probably feel pretty guilty about what happened yesterday. But I hope you don’t mind if I tell you that some things are not your concern. I think we’ll get along much better if you realize that.”

Peter frowned. “I’m sorry, Sara, but it is my concern. Neal is my CI and my friend -”

“And he’s my -” Sara stopped. “Well, we haven’t quite worked that out yet, but he’s certainly my something, and I’d thank you to mind your own business.”

Peter shook his head. “I won’t mind my own business. Not when I know he could get hurt.”

“I see your opinion of me hasn’t risen any since last night.”

Peter sighed. “It’s not my opinion of you, it’s my opinion of what Neal needs and what he will need for the next few weeks. I’m glad you took today off, but that’s not enough.”

“I know that,” Sara said, in a tone that she knew skirted the edges of politeness.“I - that is, Neal and I decided I would take some time off from Sterling-Bosch.”

Peter stared. “You’re serious?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” She didn’t add that _she_ could hardly believe it. She didn’t think that would help her case any.

“You’re going to help him shower and change his bandages and make sure he has something to eat that isn’t cold take-out?”

“Yes,” Sara said firmly, even as she had the sudden, horrible realization that she might be in well over her head. “Do you not think I’m capable?”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again. “I think . . . I think you’re probably capable of anything you really set your mind to.” His tone was almost approving. Sara told herself that she quite definitely did not care whether Peter Burke approved of her or not. “If that’s what you and Neal decided, then I respect that.”

“Thank you.”

The two of them regarded one another silently. Peter broke first, clearing his throat. “You coming?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the ICU.

“I need to make one more phone call.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and carefully took his files back from her, balancing them against his hip. Sara held the door open for him, then let it swing shut once he was through. Then she called Kirsten, actually catching her between clients for once. She had an opening at noon the next day, and Sara took it, even though it meant she wouldn’t get to the hospital until after lunch. Perhaps Mozzie could come sit with Neal in the morning, she thought, and made a mental note to get his number from Peter or Elizabeth. 

She pushed through the doors into the ICU and then slowed. Through the glass wall, she could see Neal, sitting up now, and Peter, with his stack of paperwork in front of him. As she watched, Neal stole one of the forms and proceeded to fold it into an origami bird, while Peter chastised him to no avail. Neal grinned, letting his head fall back wearily, and allowed Peter to retrieve the form. He unfolded it, scowling at the creases.

James, who was at the nurses’ desk, chuckled. Sara glanced at him. “He seems to be doing well,” she offered, aware that he couldn’t tell her much.

James hummed in agreement. “He should be in a regular room by dinner. I’m just waiting for his doctor’s final approval.”

Sara nodded. “Do you know how long he’ll be in the hospital? Altogether, I mean?”

James shook his head. “It’s not for me to say, but based on my experience, probably another three or four days. Splenectomies can be tricky, because there’s a higher than usual risk of sepsis. It’s up to his doctor, but my guess would be Saturday, Sunday at the latest.”

Sara nodded. “Thanks,” she said, glancing back toward the room. Neal turned his head on the pillow and caught her eye through the glass; his smile brightened, and she felt a sudden rush of butterflies in her stomach - delight or fear or some strange mixture of the two, she didn’t know. Three or four days, she thought. That was how much time she had to get her head straightened out.

Somehow, that didn’t seem like nearly enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely feedback so far, you guys! I really thought roughly three people were going to read this, so I'm quite chuffed at the response. 
> 
> Beta cred to the usual suspects. ;-) I'm trying to post two chapters a week, FYI, one on Monday or Tuesday and one on Thursday or Friday.

Sara entered Sterling-Bosch on Thursday morning with a latte in one hand and her briefcase in the other. In the briefcase were the notes she’d spent hours putting together the night before, notes that contained everything another investigator would need to take over her cases. She’d closed several recently, so the majority of them were new enough that she hadn’t started feeling proprietary about them. Except for the Sullivan case. Giving that one up was going to be a wrench, and not just because of the money. Robson had probably started salivating the moment he’d heard she’d taken a personal day.

"He's ready for you, Ms. Ellis," Joe said, when she stepped off the elevators on the twenty-fifth floor. "You can go right in."

"Thank you," she said, and paused briefly, straightening her spine and drawing a deep breath.

"Ms. Ellis, good morning," Bosch said, rising to greet her. He shook her hand. "I was surprised to see you on my calendar this morning. Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," Sara said, seating herself. "It was a bit of a last minute appointment. I have something I need to discuss with you."

Bosch's gaze sharpened. "Would this have something to do with the personal day you took yesterday? I must say, I was surprised. How long have you been working here? Eight years?"

"Nine last month."

"I can't remember the last time you took a sick day, much less a personal one."

"Neither can I, sir. But it was necessary. A friend of mine - a close friend - has been very badly injured. He's in the hospital. That's where I was yesterday."

Bosch frowned. "I'm very sorry to hear that. This wouldn't be Mr. Caffrey, would it?"

Sara winced inwardly. She'd hoped that Bosch wouldn't make that connection, but the charade with the Raphael had made an impression. And Winston Bosch hadn't gotten where he was today by being stupid. "Yes, it would, actually. He was shot on the job two days ago."

"Will he be all right?"

"Eventually. But it's going to take time. And he's going to need help." Sara swallowed. "I'd like to request a leave of absence, starting immediately."

Bosch raised his eyebrows. "For how long?"

"Two weeks," she said. "At least. Perhaps longer, depending on how Neal's recovery goes. I have here," she added, picking up her briefcase, "everything necessary for you to redistribute my cases to other investigators. Most of it is preliminary work, since I just wrapped both the Bell and the Groening cases."

"Yes, I recall," Bosch said, steepling his fingers together and watching her closely. "Those were good work."

"Thank you, sir."

"Your work is very good in general. Excellent, even.” Bosch paused, almost hesitated, and then continued, “I know you're ambitious. Tell me, where does this leave of absence fit into your plans?"

Sara had been prepared for him to ask - she'd thought it would be a worse sign if he didn't - and she’d decided it was best to answer honestly. "It doesn't. This isn’t something I've undertaken lightly, but I decided I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do it. And I wouldn't be doing good work for the company either, if I were constantly wishing I were somewhere else."

"Hmm," Bosch said. "That is certainly true." He accepted the packet of notes she offered him, with a USB drive on top. He shuffled through them slowly. “I see you have the Sullivan case here, as well,” he said, looking up. “I hand-picked you for that one, you know. Henry Sullivan is a friend of mine, and I promised him our top investigator.”

Sara sighed. “Thank you for the compliment, sir. But if I’m on leave -”

"Partial leave, let’s say.” Bosch pulled the sheaf of papers related to the Sullivan case out and handed it to her. "People like you and I don’t do well with nothing to do, and I don’t want to explain to Henry that my top investigator gave up his case."

Sara frowned. She felt like she should argue - the whole point, after all, was that she was supposed to be looking after Neal full-time - but the truth was that she _did_ want to keep the case. Besides, Neal liked a good mystery as much as she did. She wasn’t supposed to let him look at her files, but if he got antsy enough, she might make an exception. And if she happened to crack it, so much the better. “All right,” she said at last. “Thank you, sir.”

Bosch shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I like you, Ms. Ellis. I think you’re an excellent investigator, and I think you’d make a good division head. But I can’t promise you this won’t affect things. Two weeks isn’t terribly long, but there's always someone hungrier coming up behind you. You have to decide for yourself how much that matters to you."

"I understand, sir,” she said. She shook his hand and promised to be in touch, then went upstairs to her office.

She retrieved her work laptop from the locked cabinet in her desk where she’d stashed it two days earlier, when Peter had called her. She sent a few emails to people who needed to know she wouldn't be available for the next couple weeks and set the autoresponder to inform anyone who emailed her that she was on leave. Then she changed her outgoing voicemail message to reflect that as well. Just like she was going on vacation, she thought, except this wasn't like that at all. She planned her vacations carefully, so that they didn't interfere with her cases, and often as not she ended up working anyway. That time she'd gone to Argentina for Peter, she'd also looked into a matter or two for Sterling-Bosch. But this wasn't a carefully planned working vacation. This was dropping everything because Neal needed her. This was the sort of thing she just didn't _do_.

"Why not?" Kirsten asked, when Sara told her exactly that in her session, a few hours later. 

Sara shrugged. "It just hasn't come up, I guess. I've always heard about women who need to be needed and thought, _Why?_ "

Kirsten smiled. "It's okay, you know. This doesn't make you codependent. Frankly, I'm not sure there's a force in the universe that could do that. But this is new territory for you, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Having a partner."

Sara blinked. "We're not." 

"Aren't you?"

Sara didn't answer. _Partner_. The only time she'd ever heard Neal use the word, he'd been talking about Peter. They had a relationship based on trust, affection, and mutual respect. They supported each other and looked after each other, professionally and personally. They were in it for the long haul.

Sara swallowed. "Maybe," she admitted, very quietly. She wondered when that had happened - had something changed in the last couple of days, or had this been sneaking up on her for months now? She wondered if Neal had realized it yet. 

"This doesn't mean you have to run out and get married," Kirsten said, after nearly a minute of silence. "Partnership can mean all sorts of things. You don't need to live together or have joint bank accounts -"

Sara laughed suddenly. "As though I'd ever give Neal Caffrey access to my bank account."

Kirsten smiled. "Fair enough. But this isn't the sort of thing you - especially you, I would say - would do for just anyone."

"No," Sara agreed. "It isn't."

Kirsten nodded. "And how _do_ you feel about putting your position at Sterling-Bosch in jeopardy?"

"It's not in jeopardy." _For the moment_. Even now, her notes for at least one of her cases were probably landing on Robson’s desk. This would be Christmas morning for him. She could only imagine how he’d spin it if it got out that she was taking time off to take care of her boyfriend, the former art thief.

"Not this position, right now. But what if someone else gets a gold star for solving one of your cases while you're gone? You must be thinking about it."

"I am," Sara admitted. "I wish I weren’t. I wish I could say that none of that mattered to me, and I guess - well, compared to Neal's health, none of it does. But I worry . . ." Kirsten waited. Sara sighed. "I worry that if I get passed over for division head in a few months because of this, I'll hold it against Neal. Which is stupid, he didn't ask me to do this, and it's not his fault at all. But I still worry." She forced herself to look at Kirsten. "That's horrible, isn't it? What sort of person thinks that?"

"It's not horrible," Kirsten told her. "And the fact that you're thinking it is certainly better than not thinking it and getting blindsided down the line."

"Maybe," Sara said, looking away, "but other people wouldn't think it at all."

"What other people?"

"Warm people. Fuzzy people. People like Elizabeth Burke."

"Ah," Kirsten said, appearing enlightened. "And in contrast you are . . . ?"

"Cold," Sara said immediately. "Unfeeling. Unsentimental."

Kirsten frowned, studying her. "Has someone called you that?"

"No. Well," Sara amended, "I suppose Peter might've implied it. And, a long time ago, my dad's sister. It was after my parents died," she added, when Kirsten raised her eyebrows. "I'd just started with Sterling-Bosch, and I didn't have a lot of time to clean the house out. I didn't want to spend much time doing it either, it was just - it was very difficult, and I didn't have anyone to help me. I was living in this tiny studio at the time, so I didn't have anywhere to put anything I did want to keep. I thought I'd just do it as fast as I could, like ripping off a Band-Aid."

"And your aunt didn't like that?"

"Not really, no." Now, years later, she knew her aunt had just been angry and grieving, but at the time, it had come as a fresh slap in the face. And even understanding what she did now, she still couldn't forgive some of the things her aunt had said to her that day, in the half-empty living room of her parents' house. She'd called her a cold-hearted bitch and accused her of stealing things out from underneath the rest of the family. Sara had stood there and taken it, too shocked to defend herself. It was the first moment that her situation had really hit her: she was alone in the world. Never again would someone come to her defense just because she was their daughter.

"Has she ever apologized?"

Sara shook her head. "We haven't spoken since. I don't speak with any of my extended family." She looked away, tracking a pigeon as it flew by outside the window. "She was too harsh," she said at last. "I didn't deserve the things she said to me. I was twenty-three and my parents were dead, I just wanted the whole thing over with. But maybe - maybe she wasn't wrong."

"She was," Kirsten said, very quietly. "She was, Sara. I hope someday you realize that."

Sara was exhausted when she left Kirsten's office twenty minutes later. It'd started to rain, a steady gray drizzle, and her head ached. She knew she should eat something, but she couldn't find the energy, and finally she decided that if she was hungry later, she could always grab something in the cafeteria. She hailed a cab - no easy feat, considering the weather - and directed the driver to the hospital. 

Neal's new room was much more comfortable than his ICU cubicle. There was still a U.S. Marshal stationed outside - never the same one twice, and not one of them had seen fit to introduce himself to Sara - but at least it was private and had a bathroom attached, as well as a window to let in fresh air and light. At the moment the blinds were down and it was dim and quiet inside. Neal was asleep, but it looked as though someone had visited him recently. Sara cast an eye over the small pile of new acquisitions: an exquisite potted orchid, an assortment of DVDs, including _Tiles of Fire IV_ and two that questioned the moon landing, a portable chess set, and a plastic take-out bag containing a half-empty pint of miso soup and a full container of noodles. Mozzie and June must have come bearing lunch.

"We saved the noodles for you," Neal said sleepily. Sara turned and saw that he still hadn't opened his eyes. "I wasn't sure if you'd've eaten."

"I haven't, thanks." She retrieved the container of noodles and a plastic fork and curled up in the bedside chair. "Did you have a good visit with June and Mozzie?"

"Mmm," he said, opening his eyes at last. "Good. But tiring.”

“You should go back to sleep.”

“Maybe later. How did things go at Sterling-Bosch?"

Sara swallowed a bite of noodles. "Better than I expected."

Neal frowned. "You sure? You look a bit, I don't know. You know, you don't have to do this -"

"Yes," Sara said firmly, "I do. Besides,” she added, trying not to sound guilty, “I kept one case.”

"The Rodin?"

Sara raised her eyebrows. “How did you know?”

Neal shrugged. “It’s the only one you’ve mentioned to me recently. I thought it must’ve caught your attention more than the others.”

She nodded. “It did. And Bosch wanted me on it specifically. He told me to keep it.”

"You should let me look at the file. I might have some ideas."

Sara gave him half a smile. "I'm not sure your doctor would count that as resting."

"Resting's boring," Neal sighed. "And it's only going to get more boring as I get less tired." He let his head tilt back to rest against the pillow and looked at her. She ate her noodles, feeling considerably better as her blood sugar rose. But Neal wasn't fooled, she could tell. He waited until she’d finished eating, and then he said, “Come on, Sara. What’s wrong? Did Bosch give you a hard time?"

"No," she said, and got up to drop the empty take-out container into the trash bin in the corner. "He didn't give me a hard time at all."

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing," she said with a sigh. She reseated herself by the bed and leaned forward on the mattress. "Nothing happened. I went home after my appointment with Bosch, dropped off my things, and changed my clothes."

"You were gone longer than that," Neal observed. 

Sara wrestled with herself, briefly. Neal knew she was in therapy; hell, even if she hadn't told him, it'd be a reasonable assumption for him to make, this being New York. But she'd never talked about her sessions, and he, of course, had never asked. But there was no reason for him _not_ to know. "I called my therapist yesterday and scheduled an extra appointment for today," she said at last. "It was a little rough, that's all."

Neal reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb over its heel. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. It's nothing for you to worry about." She turned her hand over, capturing Neal's hand in hers. "You should get some rest. Don't feel you have to entertain me when I'm here."

"I don't," he said, smiling. "But I don't feel like sleeping right now. Do you play chess? Moz brought me a board."

Sara pursed her lips. "I _have_ played chess, which I'm not sure is the same as saying that I play chess. It's been a while."

"That's okay," Neal said magnanimously, as he fumbled for the bed controls to sit himself up. "I'll let you win every other game."

Sara narrowed her eyes. "You will do no such thing, Caffrey." She reached down and retrieved the board from the bag on the floor, trying to recall everything her grandfather had taught her about the game when she was a kid. She’d been indifferent even then, and she hadn't played in at least five years. But Neal's condescending little smirk was giving her determination. And damn him, he undoubtedly knew it. 

"Shall we make it interesting?" Neal asked as he set up the board. 

As though she could possibly be that stupid. "I don't bet with conmen."

"Just a small wager," Neal said, smiling so charmingly that she couldn't quite call it wheedling. "It doesn't have to be money."

"You're hardly in the position at the moment to offer sexual favors."

"Ouch," Neal said, grimacing. "Low blow."

"But true."

"But true," he agreed, ruefully. "No, I was thinking something else. Truth or Dare chess, only without the dare."

Sara shook her head. "Forget it. You're going to kick my ass and we both know it."

"Maybe not as badly as you think. I'm on narcotics."

Sara gave him a look. "Nice try."

"Okay, okay. How about this: if I beat you in fewer than fifteen moves, you have to tell me something about yourself that I don't already know. If you win or it takes me longer than fifteen moves, I have to tell you something."

Sara frowned, suspicious. "So I could just tell you that I hate raw tomatoes and that would count?"

"I knew that already, actually," Neal said, with a smile. "But no, I think for this to be interesting, it should be something real. Something significant. What do you say?"

Sara hesitated. As cons went, this was not one of Neal's best. He was going to beat her handily, and they both knew it. But she had total control over what she told him. That was smart of him, she thought, with grudging respect. She'd never have agreed to it otherwise. But then, maybe that was to his benefit as well. There was always the chance that she'd be a more formidable opponent than he expected, and it was just like Neal Caffrey to always hedge his bets.

"All right," she said. "That sounds fair."

The first game was every bit as much of a slaughter as she'd feared. He beat her in nine moves. But to his credit, he didn't gloat, just set up the board for a second game while waiting for her to come up with her one true thing. There were any number of things hovering near the surface of her mind today, but there was one big thing that she'd never told him, except once in the vaguest of terms while eating Chinese food on the roof of the FBI building. "My parents died in a car accident when I was twenty-three."

Neal looked up. "God, Sara. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so young when it happened."

Sara shrugged, unwilling to let on how terrible it had been. "We hadn't really had a normal parent-child relationship in a long time. I was used to looking after myself." She cleared her throat. "Are we ready to play again?"

The second time was easier - Neal might have been getting tired, or perhaps he was letting her win, Sara didn't know and almost didn't care. She held out for seventeen moves this time, before he moved in for the kill. "Nice," he said. "We might have to change the terms of the bet."

"Not so fast, Caffrey. Spill."

He nodded, his smile fading as he seemed to consider his options while resetting the board. "I guess I'll stay with the theme," he said at last. "I haven't seen or talked to my mom since my eighteenth birthday. I found out she'd lied to me about something, and I just couldn't deal with it. I left and never looked back."

Sara wasn’t terribly surprised. "Do you miss her?" she asked, half-expecting him to refuse to answer, based on the rules of the game. But he didn’t.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I think I finally got around to forgiving her while I was in prison. I realize now that she did the best she could. I still don't think she should’ve lied to me, but maybe it was all she could do."

"You could find her. Peter would help."

Neal shook his head. "That's a much more complicated story. Your move."

She lost again, faster this time, possibly because she was distracted by imagining Neal at eighteen, too smart for his own good and mad at the whole world. Twelve moves and Neal was knocking over her king. She was quiet for several minutes this time, considering what to tell him. Finally she said, "I don't think I ever loved Bryan. I thought I did," she added, looking at the rook in her hand, rather than at Neal. "We were good together. We had spark. But I don't think I ever loved him."

Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute. Neal made no move to set up the board again. "I don't think Kate ever really loved me," he said at last. Sara glanced at him sharply. "Maybe she did. I guess I'll never know."

"Neal, she visited you in prison every week for almost four years, didn't she? You don't do that for someone you don't love."

"You do if it's a long con," Neal said, his voice heavy. "It was only an hour a week. I don't know what she did the rest of the time." He shook his head. "I’m sorry. This was supposed to be amusing, not depressing."

"Well, that was probably my fault," Sara said, thinking that perhaps she shouldn't have opened with her dead parents. "Here," she offered, and then laughed suddenly. "When I testified at your trial, the first thing I thought when I saw you was that you were much more attractive in person than in the photos I'd seen of you. And then I was furious at myself for having thought it, because there you were, this brazen thief who'd stolen a Raphael and cost my company millions, and what right did you have to sit there looking so damn sexy?"

Neal smiled. "Really?"

"Really." She leaned forward. "Now your turn."

"All right." He met her eyes unflinchingly. "I like you."

Sara rolled her eyes. "I knew that already. Try again."

"No, Sara, I _really_ like you. I know that when I left, it really messed things up between us. I never thought you’d give me a second chance, but I’m so grateful you did. And this, what you've done for me the past few days, taking leave from your job . . ." He shook his head. "It's so much more than I expected. Thank you."

Sara felt a sudden, painful lump in her throat. "Oh. No, it's -"

"It's not nothing," Neal said quietly. "Don't say that it's nothing."

Sara nodded. "Okay, it's not nothing. But it's - it is my pleasure, Neal. Really." She was surprised to find that, for the moment at least, she meant it. 

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they didn't play another game. Neal rang the nurse for his afternoon pain pill - sometime in the last twenty-four hours, he'd moved from morphine to Percocet - and drowsed off once he’d taken it. Sara opened her laptop and realized quite suddenly that she had no idea what to do with herself. She was on leave, which meant that, technically speaking, she shouldn't be answering her work email at all. She found herself on the _New York Times_ website, perusing the editorials and listening with one ear to Neal's slow and steady breathing.

Neal woke just in time for dinner, such as it was. The hospital still had him on a mostly liquid diet, and he was poking listlessly at a dish of green Jell-O when Peter and Elizabeth appeared, a take-out bag swinging from Elizabeth's hand.

"Please tell me there's something in there I can eat," Neal said, eyeing the bag hungrily. 

"Hot and sour soup," Elizabeth said, dropping a kiss on the crown of Neal's head. She looked up. "Hey, Sara, you hungry?"

"I could eat," Sara said, closing her laptop and slipping it into her bag. 

"Good," Peter said, "because I think we have enough Chinese food for a small army. If you don't mind, though, I'm going to need to borrow Neal for a bit."

Neal looked resigned. "Time to give my statement?" 

Peter nodded. "Now that you're off the morphine drip, I can't fob them off any longer. This won't take more than an hour or so," he added to Sara. 

"Sara and I'll have a picnic in the atrium," Elizabeth said, poking through the various containers in the plastic bag and setting a few of them out on the tray, along with some plastic cutlery. "Sweetie, I'm leaving you the mushu pork, the fried rice, and two of the potstickers."

"Thanks, hon," Peter replied absently. Sara could see him slipping seamlessly back into work mode. She didn't think he noticed at all when she and Elizabeth left.

The atrium was on the tenth floor, an open, airy space with a wall of windows that faced the park. There were little groups of tables and chairs, and Sara and Elizabeth claimed one of them, spreading the Chinese food out across it. Sara poked around until she found a container of sesame chicken, while Elizabeth opened the chow mein. Sara hadn't realized how hungry she was, but it had been hours since her container of noodles. 

"Neal's looking better," Elizabeth remarked, after a few moments of contented chewing. 

"They've taken him off the morphine. I think that made a difference. Thanks for bringing this, by the way,” she added. “I’m sure I speak for Neal when I say we both appreciate it."

Elizabeth waved this way. “Hospitals are bad enough without having to eat the food, too.” 

“I’m finding that out.” Sara nibbled at a piece of chicken. "So, um. How was your day?"

"It was all right," Elizabeth said with a sigh. "I'm planning this wedding that’s proving to be an enormous pain in the ass. I don't do weddings very often anymore, but it's the daughter of one of my very good clients, so I said yes, and now I'm wishing I hadn't. Both sets of parents are divorced, and the groom's parents refuse to even be in the same room. Everyone has an opinion about everything. I spend most of my time mediating, rather than planning."

Sara winced. "That sounds annoying."

"Worse for the couple than for me. I made a joke about eloping this afternoon, and they both got wistful glints in their eyes."

Sara laughed. "I bet."

"So that was my day. How was yours?"

Sara shrugged. "I'm officially on leave from Sterling-Bosch."

"How's that sitting with you?"

"Okay so far. I think. We'll see how this goes. I'm not used to having nothing to do." She did not, for the moment, mention that she’d kept one of her cases. Neal had been all right with it, but Sara had the sneaking suspicion that Elizabeth and Peter - especially Peter - might take a different view. 

"It's an adjustment," Elizabeth agreed. "But if Neal is anything like Peter when he's laid up, he'll keep you on your toes. Speaking of which.” She hesitated. Sara, in the midst of poking around in the takeout containers for anything that resembled a vegetable, looked up and raised her eyebrows. “Peter and I have been talking. Neal's doctor told Peter that she wants to discharge Neal the day after tomorrow. Which is great, of course, but it does sort of raise the question of where he's going to spend his recovery."

Sara abruptly gave up on her search and sat back, reaching for her bottle of water instead. "Right.” 

"As far as Peter and I can see it," Elizabeth went on, "there are three options: our place, your place, or June's. I think June's would be difficult - I'm sure she'd be willing, but there are a lot of stairs up to Neal’s apartment, and it's not really set up for other people to stay over."

"I don't think Neal really sees that as an option anyway," Sara said, thinking back to the conversation they'd had the day before. 

"I thought as much. So that leaves us with your place or ours."

"So it would seem." Sara sipped her water bottle, not quite meeting Elizabeth's eyes. This was where she was supposed to say that she'd be happy to have Neal at her place while he recovered. She'd taken personal leave, after all; she'd be around all day, and there was no reason for him to be anywhere else. She'd meant what she said to Neal: visiting him every day or two at Peter and Elizabeth's wasn't enough. She'd committed to this - to him - and she meant to see it through.

If only the idea didn’t scare the hell out of her. 

It was one thing here in the hospital, where the nursing staff was available at all times. It was quite another thing when she thought about being at home, with just her and Neal, and no one to call on if she needed help. She was sure that everyone else would be in and out, too, but in the end it'd be her responsibility to look after Neal, to make sure he took his medication on time, stayed comfortable and clean, and ate what he was supposed, when he was supposed to. It was not going to be dignified or sexy; she'd have known that even if Peter hadn't felt the need to point it out to her. It was going to be messy and unpleasant and embarrassing, and it'd be up to _her_ to mitigate that as much as possible, to set aside her own feelings in favor of Neal's. 

“This isn’t a trick question, Sara,” Elizabeth said, when she didn’t answer. “There’s no wrong answer to it.”

Sara swallowed. “I’m sorry. I just don't know if Neal staying with me would be the best thing for him.”

Elizabeth nodded, looking neither upset nor particularly surprised. "Peter and I are happy to have Neal stay with us - and we're happy to have you stay with us, too. The guest room's big enough for two."

"Oh," Sara said, surprised into near-speechlessness.

"I think Peter would prefer to have Neal close by anyway," Elizabeth said, reaching for the potstickers. "And this way it doesn't have to be all on you. I work from home a lot of the time, and Peter can, too, if necessary."

"Oh," Sara said again, this time in relief. "Yes, I think - I think that would be the best plan."

"Peter will be glad to hear it," Elizabeth said with a smile. "He wanted to jump right in with this idea, but I told him we needed to see if you and Neal had worked something else out."

"We hadn't," Sara said, probably unnecessarily. She didn't suppose it would be terribly comfortable, being a guest in Peter and Elizabeth's house for at least a week and possibly longer, but she was willing to trade a bit of comfort for knowing that she wasn't alone in this. "Thank you. Really."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Don't worry about it. It's what you do for family."

Sara didn't know quite how to respond. _Not my family_ sounded too cynical even in her own head, and she didn't want to go there with Elizabeth. She'd already said _thank you_. In the end, she simply nodded.

She and Elizabeth returned to Neal's room to find Diana Barrigan and Clinton Jones there as well. They'd come bearing an enormous flower arrangement, which apparently the whole office had chipped in on, and a _Get Well_ card signed by everyone in the White Collar division. It was crowded in Neal's room with Peter's whole team there, and it looked as though Neal would be entertained for as long as he could stay awake. Sara only stayed for a few minutes before kissing him goodnight and saying goodbye to everyone. 

Outside, the sun had set and dusk had settled over the city. Sara hailed a cab and gave the cabbie her address. She settled into the backseat and watch the lights of the city and the dark, almost negative space of the park slide by outside.

 _It's just what you do for family._ It didn't surprise her to learn that Elizabeth considered Neal family - that much was obvious from how Peter treated him, as some strange hybrid of brother, prodigal son, best friend, and partner. But she hadn't considered that she might be considered family as well, by extension. 

It was a strange idea and not the first she'd had to assimilate today. Strange and a little discomfiting, but not, upon consideration, bad. In the past two and a half years, Neal had accumulated a small but significant tribe of people who were willing to do anything for him. Once upon a time, Sara would have viewed that with a cynical eye. Neal was a conman after all. He got people to give him things or do him favors for a living. But that wasn't the case with Peter and Elizabeth, Mozzie and June. He might not have spoken to his mother since he was eighteen, but he had a family here, one that he'd created for himself. 

That was something that Sara had never managed. She’d never replaced the family she’d lost with one she’d made for herself. Even now, every time one of Neal's people reached out to her, she found herself flinching away. She wondered if she could stop, or if the habit of keeping everyone at arm’s length was simply too ingrained within her. Perhaps her aunt’s words had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. She’d never wanted to give anyone the power to hurt her like that again, and for the most part, she’d managed not to. But protecting herself had come at a price, one that she hadn’t even realized she was paying.

Her phone chimed. She pulled it out and glanced at it. _Goodnight, Repo,_ Neal had written. 

Sara swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. _Go to sleep, Conman,_ she wrote back, then sat with the phone in her lap, her fingers curled around it as though it were Neal’s hand. 

She didn’t know if she could stop flinching. She didn’t know if she knew how to be part of Neal’s family. But damned if she didn’t want to try.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a recipe! The mac and cheese that Elizabeth makes is Smitten Kitchen's [easiest ever baked mac and cheese](http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2006/10/cheddar-and-elbows-exalted/), which is both incredibly delicious and incredibly easy. 
> 
> Thanks to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti for the beta!

Peter was already at the hospital when Sara arrived on Saturday morning, half an hour before Neal was scheduled to be discharged. He was dressed for work and immediately apologized, explaining he couldn’t go home with them. “A lead came in late last night on a new location for the smuggling ring,” he said, while the three of them waited for Neal’s discharge paperwork. “We’re just waiting for a warrant, which should come through this afternoon.”

“And you’ll be _careful_ , won’t you?” Neal asked, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “If the mob’s involved -”

“Everything Ruiz’s team has found so far indicates that Gianelli was there without his uncle’s knowledge,” Peter said, putting his hand on Neal’s shoulder. “If that’s the case, he’ll be doing everything he can to keep it that way.” Neal nodded, but he didn’t look terribly reassured. Peter squeezed his shoulder. “I promise, I’ll be careful, Neal. Diana and Jones have my back.”

Neal nodded again. “I know.”

A nurse entered then, with his discharge papers, a packet of instructions, and a bag of pills. She went through each prescription with them, handing them off to Sara as she explained them. There were his pain pills, of course - Percocet, to be taken every few hours as needed - and then there were the antibiotics to prevent infection. “Removing the spleen has consequences for the immune system,” the nurse explained. “You need to take these twice a day until they’re gone. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel sick or you don’t think you’re getting an infection - twice a day, no matter what.”

“Twice a day,” Neal repeated. “I promise.”

“And at the slightest sign of infection,” she added, “you’re to go straight to the ER. Once this course of antibiotics is finished, you should see your GP to talk about options for managing your health long-term. Certain vaccines and boosters are recommended for post-splenectomy patients.” Neal nodded, and Sara tucked the pills into her purse, along with the discharge instructions. The nurse wished Neal a speedy recovery and departed. 

Once she’d gone, Sara started packing up everything Neal had accumulated in the last few days into a duffel bag, while Peter helped Neal dress - in track pants and a sweatshirt, much to Neal’s dismay. “Are we going to keep the armed guard?” Sara asked, as she collected Neal’s toiletries into his doc kit.

Peter glanced toward the door, where the latest guard still stood. “No. We’ve got eyes on the smuggling ring and Gianelli at all times right now. But keep the doors locked and your phone on you, just as a precaution.”

Sara nodded. “We will.”

Peter glanced at his watch. “I should head into the office.” He glanced at Neal, who was sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Neal, you’ll be okay?" 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just watch your back,” Neal said, frowning. “You’re going to be wearing a vest, right?”

“I will be wearing a vest,” Peter assured him. “Don’t be too much of a pain in Sara’s ass, all right? El’s working this morning, but she’ll be home this afternoon,” he added, mostly to Sara.

“Seriously, Peter,” Sara said, “we’ll be fine.”

“Right,” Peter said. He looked at Neal, opened his mouth as though to say something, then finally shook his head. He ruffled Neal’s hair once, fondly, and left. 

Sara dropped the duffel bag of Neal’s stuff onto the bedside chair and sat beside him on the bed. “Why weren’t you wearing a vest?” she asked him - perhaps not the best opening line, but the one that’d been on her mind since he’d said it to Peter.

Neal grimaced. “We knew they’d pat me down.” He fell quiet, but after a moment he shook his head, as though clearing it. “Sorry. Just worried about Peter.” 

"He’ll be all right,” she said, with as much confidence as she could muster. "Now c’mon. Let's get out of here."

"Don't forget Peter," Neal said, digging the stuffed rabbit out from beneath the covers.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," Sara muttered, shoving the damn thing into the duffel. Neal's smile only widened.

Somewhat to her surprise, Neal did not protest the mandatory wheelchair. He was on crutches because of muscle damage in his thigh, and he held them carefully as an orderly steered him down the hall and onto the elevator. Sara carried the duffel bag and the potted orchid, having donated the arrangement from Neal's coworkers to the desk at the nurses' station. They rode the elevator down to the parking garage, where Elizabeth's Honda Civic waited for them. She'd insisted on lending it to Sara for the day, assuring her that she’d just take the subway back to Brooklyn when she was done at work.

"There you go," the orderly said, once Neal was successfully settled in the front passenger seat. "Take care of yourself, all right? I don't ever want to see you here again."

Neal laughed, a bit gingerly. "Duly noted. Thanks." The orderly waved and pushed the wheelchair back toward the bank of elevators. 

Sara put the duffel bag in the trunk, next to her own suitcase and and a file box containing everything she had on the Sullivan case. She slammed the trunk shut, came round to slide into the driver's side, and passed the orchid off to Neal. "Ready?" she asked him.

"More than," Neal said with relief.

Sara could count the number of times she'd been to the Burkes' house on one hand, but it looked much the same as she remembered it: pleasantly lived in, clean and comfortable. She suspected that the decor reflected Elizabeth more than Peter, and that Peter was just as happy with it that way. She held the door open for Neal as he hobbled inside and made sure that the Burkes' lab didn't knock him over. The dog - Satchel, she thought, or something like that - sniffed around a bit, then ambled over to the back door and sat down expectantly. Sara opened the door and it ran out into the back garden. 

"Okay, then," she said, turning back to Neal. "Are you hungry?" It was almost time for his next pill. Elizabeth had texted her that morning to let her know that there was a pot of homemade chicken soup in the fridge.

Neal grimaced. "I think we'd better get me upstairs first."

"Right. Good idea.” Together, they contemplated the staircase warily. "Do you want to do it on the crutches or use the railing?"

"I'll try it on the crutches," Neal said, hobbling over. Sara stood behind him as he hopped up the first stair. "That wasn't so bad." He did the next one, and then the third, but on the fourth he overbalanced and came down on his bad leg. He gasped, and it gave out beneath him. He would have fallen backward if Sara hadn't been standing behind him. She managed to catch him, just barely, and one of the crutches slid down the stairs to lie at the bottom. 

"You okay?" Sara asked him breathlessly. 

"Yeah," Neal said. He winced, one hand stealing to the incision site on his abdomen. "Ow. I feel like I pulled something."

"Okay, let's try it another way." Sara made sure he was hanging onto the banister, then slipped his other arm over her shoulders. She moved the second crutch out of the way, sliding it down the stairs to join the first. "On my count. One . . . two . . . three . . ."

It was a slow, painful process. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Sara was sweating, and Neal looked like he was on the verge of passing out. He leaned against the wall at the top while she ran back down for the crutches, then hobbled slowly into the guest room, where he sank down onto the bed. He very carefully swung his legs onto the mattress and leaned back. He was as white as chalk. "I am not," he said, very deliberately, "doing that again."

"Thank God you didn't decide to go to June's," Sara said. She leaned the crutches against the wall. 

Neal winced. "No kidding."

"It'll be easier in a couple of days.” She sat down beside him on the bed to get her breath back. It was a nice guest room, she saw, glancing around. The bed felt comfortable, and the Burkes had even installed a TV and DVD player at its foot. "Did you actually pull anything?" she asked, after a few seconds of silence. 

"I don't think so," Neal said, but he pulled the band of his loose-fitting black track pants down to reveal the white bandage across his abdomen. It looked all right. Sara rolled his pant leg up to check the one on his thigh, but it looked okay, too; the edges of the bandages had held, and there were no telltale spots of red.

"All clear," she said, relieved. She really didn’t know what she'd have done if he'd managed to rip his stitches out or something. "I need to get everything out of the car. Then lunch?"

Neal nodded, still looking more than a bit wiped out. "Thanks," he said, eyes already sliding shut. 

It required two trips out to the car to get everything inside. By then the dog was scratching at the back door. Sara let it in, and it - or _he_ , she guessed - ran to the kitchen and started lapping noisily at his water bowl. Sara regarded the small pile of luggage at the bottom of the stairs and decided to start heating the soup on the stove before dealing with it. 

On the middle shelf of the fridge, as promised, was an enormous container of chicken soup. It had a note taped to the lid, with _Sara_ written across it in Elizabeth Burke's even, loopy handwriting. 

_Welcome! I hope everything went all right bringing Neal home. Please help yourself to anything in the fridge or the cupboards. The DVDs are in the living room, and Neal undoubtedly knows the passwords to our internet and Netflix accounts._

_I should be home around three. Don't hesitate to call me if you need something or have a question. Good luck!_

_Elizabeth_

"Right," Sara muttered. She set the container of soup on the counter and rummaged around in the cabinets until she found a reasonably-sized pot and a rather ill-fitting lid. She dumped a couple servings of soup into it and put the rest away. She put the pot on the burner and turned it up to medium. "Don't even think about it," she told the dog, who was watching her closely, and went to lug everything upstairs.

Apparently exhausted from the morning, Neal looked as though he'd dozed off against the headboard. But he opened his eyes when Sara came in, carrying his duffel bag over one shoulder and dragging her rolling suitcase behind her. "Let me just put everything away," she said, "and then we'll have lunch. Elizabeth left you some soup."

Neal smiled. "Take your time. I’m not in any hurry, it's just nice not to be in the hospital anymore." Sara had to agree. She'd gotten to go home and sleep in her bed every night, and it'd still started to wear on her. She could only imagine what it'd been like for Neal.

She placed the orchid on the windowsill and the filebox on the floor on her side of the bed, and then she started putting their clothes away. She'd only brought enough for a few days, figuring that eventually she would need to go home to get the mail, and she could replenish her wardrobe then. She'd brought a few pairs of jeans and casual trousers and some sweaters and shirts. She supposed it was a step up from Neal's available wardrobe, which consisted entirely of pajamas and sweats. Almost everything went into the room's small dresser, except for Sara's trousers and a few of the nicer tops she'd brought, which she hung in the closet.

The little stuffed rabbit she set on the windowsill next to the orchid, where it was half-hidden away. Hopefully no one would notice it.

The soup had started to bubble by the time Sara went downstairs. She reduced the heat and made herself a salad out of things in the crisper. She managed to find a tray in one of the cupboards and loaded it up with her salad, Neal's soup, and two bottles of sparkling water. Halfway up the stairs, she realized she'd forgotten any sort of silverware. She sighed and turned around.

"Lunch is served," she announced as brightly as she could manage, when she finally entered the guest room. Then she stopped, frowning. "Off," she said sternly to the Burkes' dog, who was currently curled up in an impossibly small, furry ball on her side of the bed. " _Off_ ," she repeated, when the dog only looked imploringly at Neal, who in turn looked imploringly at Sara. "No, no way. I'm not sleeping on sheets covered in dog hair."

Neal sighed. "You heard her, Satchmo," _That_ was the dog's name, Sara thought triumphantly. Satch _mo_. "Off." The dog jumped down with a resentful look in Sara's direction and went to stretch out on the floor on Neal's side of the bed. "I take it you're not a dog person," Neal said, as she set the tray down on his lap.

"Not really," she said, retrieving her salad and her bottle of water and settling beside him. "If I have to be an anything person, I suppose I'm a cat person. Dogs are too . . ."

"Dependent?"

She glanced at him. "I was going to say 'enthusiastic.'"

"Ah," Neal said, and smiled down at the dog, who stood up, tail wagging, and rested his head on Neal's thigh. Neal scratched behind his ears. "Satch's a good dog. He knows how to look after his people."

"I'm sure he does," Sara said, spearing a carrot. "But if you want him on the bed, it'd better be on your side."

"Understood," Neal said, and turned back to his soup. The dog watched hopefully until he finally concluded that human food would not be forthcoming, and lay down again. 

After lunch, Sara suggested they watch a movie, but Neal said he was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. She took the dishes downstairs and loaded them into the dishwasher, then stood for a moment in the middle of the Burkes’ kitchen, wondering what she should do with herself. Work, she supposed, on the Sullivan case, since Neal was going to sleep anyway. 

But when she went upstairs to get the file, Neal opened one eye and patted the bed beside him. Sara shrugged and settled in, tugging a pillow over between her back and the headboard. Neal rolled over so that his head rested against her hip, and she balanced the open file on her leg. Ever so nonchalantly, she let her fingers sink into Neal's hair to rub against his scalp. He made a noise that bordered on the indecent, and she smiled. 

The top sheet in the file was the police report. She reread it, though she didn’t think she could possibly find anything new in there. No sign of forced entry, which indicated an inside job. No sign of the piece since then, either, as far as NYPD could tell, and it was too significant to skate by under the radar. It had just vanished. That probably meant it was in private hands. Sara had suspected since she’d gotten the case that someone had hired a professional to make the grab, perhaps with some help from the inside. 

Such as a door left unlocked by the housekeeper. 

The information that Sara had requested about Sullivan’s housekeeper had come in. Rita Malone had no priors, but she did have a nine-year-old daughter who had shown promise with the violin. Beth Malone was currently enrolled in the School for Strings, and Rita had taken out a loan for the tuition payments. She’d been dangerously close to defaulting until just after the sculpture disappeared. When questioned, Malone had said that she'd come into an inheritance from her uncle. The story had checked out, according to the police. But Sara, reading through the transcript of Malone’s statement, didn't buy it. 

In any case, she knew that if it had been a commissioned job, the sculpture wouldn’t be likely to surface any time soon. It would stay locked away in some back room until long after Sterling-Bosch had paid out and the case had been dropped. But Sara was better than that. She'd cracked cases before with less. Though not, she had to admit, with _much_ less.

She hadn't made much progress by a quarter after three, when she heard the front door open and shut. Satchmo stood up immediately and trotted out of the room. Sara set her files carefully aside on the bed, shifted out from beneath Neal, and went to investigate. 

"Hey there, Satch," Elizabeth was saying, ruffling the dog's ears. "Hi, Sara," she added, glancing up.

Sara put her finger to her lips and pointed upstairs. Elizabeth nodded and headed into the kitchen, Satchmo at her heels. Sara followed.

"How'd it go this morning?" Elizabeth asked, while running fresh water into the dog's bowl. 

"Okay," Sara said, perching on one of the stools at the kitchen island. "The stairs were difficult."

Elizabeth sighed. "I love this house, but its one real drawback is that the only bathroom is upstairs. We've talked about putting one in down here, even without a shower, but it'd be a huge pain. You guys managed them all right, though?"

"Eventually. But if Neal has to do them again, I nominate Peter to serve as human crutch."

Elizabeth laughed. "I'm sure he'd be fine with that. Speaking of which, he texted me an hour or so ago and said not to expect him for dinner. They've got a lead on the men who shot Neal."

"So he said this morning. Did he say anything more?” 

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, but he never gives me many details until it’s all over. Better for my peace of mind.” She opened the refrigerator and contemplated its contents. "I was thinking of doing something simple for dinner. I'm sure Neal is sick of soup, but I thought we could all do with some comfort food. Maybe mac and cheese and a salad or some steamed veggies. Do you know what Neal likes?"

Sara suspected she was supposed to have a ready answer to that question. "He's not particular," she hedged. 

"Well, I know, I just thought . . . anyway, it doesn't matter." Elizabeth closed the fridge and turned back to Sara. "Is there anything you don't eat? Come to think of it," she added with a laugh, "you probably don't eat much mac and cheese, do you?"

"Not really," Sara admitted. "But I do like it."

Elizabeth nodded. "All right. Well, I should run to the store."

"I could go," Sara offered. "If you made me a list. I'd like to get out for a bit." Immediately, Sara wondered if she should have admitted that, but Elizabeth simply nodded and started making a list of things for her to get, muttering to herself and occasionally checking a recipe she'd brought up on her iPhone.

"There," Elizabeth said at last. "I think that's everything." _1 lb sharp cheddar,_ Sara saw, glancing down at it, _1 box elbow mac, cottage cheese, milk, 1 head cauliflower, broccoli, 1 bag baby carrots._ "This'll make leftovers for a few days, too."

"Right," Sara said, relieved that she wouldn't be expected to cook anything while she and Neal were home during the day. The Burkes had a very nice kitchen, and she'd hate to be responsible for destroying it. 

It was a relief to escape the house. It had been almost pleasant to sit with Neal that afternoon, but Sara could already feel the walls closing in on her. It was all so very domestic: the cozy house, the dog, even the food. Sara didn't know why Elizabeth and Peter didn't have kids, because Elizabeth was clearly very good at the whole nurturing thing. Normally it didn't bother Sara in the slightest that she wasn’t herself, but at the moment it was taking a concerted mental effort not to feel inadequate.

She lingered a bit longer than necessary in the grocery store. She bought everything on Elizabeth's list, and then a few things for herself: more salad fixings, some cereal, and a couple boxes of instant miso. Neal loved to cook and rarely ate prepackaged or instant anything - she suspected it reminded him too much of prison - but she picked up a few things she thought he'd like for lunch. Then she ducked into the liquor store next door and dithered in the wine aisle for nearly ten minutes. She finally picked up two bottles, one white, one red. She thought it might be necessary before all this was said and done. 

The house was quiet when she returned. Elizabeth and the dog were both in the backyard, Elizabeth doing mysterious garden things and the dog running around being a dog. Sara decided not to bother her and did her best to put the groceries away in a reasonable fashion. Then she made two cups of tea from a stash she found in one of the cupboards and took them upstairs to see if Neal was awake. 

He was awake - awake and sitting up and sifting through the files that Sara had left on the bed. She leaned in the doorway and cleared her throat. 

Neal looked up. "Oh hey."

"Yes, _hey_ ," she said wryly. "Neal. What are you doing?"

"Helping you?" he suggested, innocently. "I was bored. They were here."

"Those are the confidential property of Sterling-Bosch.”

"Then it's a good thing you didn't let me look at them."

" _Neal_."

Neal sighed. "You were going to tell me about the case anyway. I thought I'd save you the trouble."

"Oh, you did, did you?" she replied. "Well, in the future, try to be less helpful."

"Sorry," Neal said, failing to look at all sorry. "But I was thinking this is probably a commissioned job - they hired the thief or thieves but probably got someone on the inside to help. The housekeeper, Rita Malone -"

"I know, Neal. She has debts from her daughter's education. Unfortunately," Sara added, as she handed Neal his mug of tea and folded herself up to sit on the bed beside him, "if it was a commissioned job, that means I'm not going to be able to find it when it surfaces on the market. It's sitting safely in someone's private residence."

Neal nodded. "True. But a job like this probably required more than one person. The sculpture’s three feet tall and made of bronze, you can't grab something like that and then scale the fire escape by yourself. I can get Mozzie to ask around and see if anyone pulled a job requiring some muscle around this time."

Sara frowned. "Discretely?"

"Of course."

She hesitated, but the truth was that she'd run out of ideas and playing the waiting game wasn't getting her anywhere. "Okay. Thank you."

"No problem." Neal sipped his tea. "It's a beautiful piece of work.”

"Mmm. It's my favorite Rodin."

He glanced at her. "Is that why you kept the case?"

"Maybe. I'd like to find it. And a hundred and twenty thousand dollars never hurt anyone."

"True enough." Neal contemplated the photo of the sculpture on the top sheet of the file. "Would you like your own?" he asked. She opened her mouth, and he held his hands up quickly. "Not a real one, obviously. A copy."

"A Neal Caffrey copy?" she said, considering. He shrugged. "I don't know where I'd put it. It'd look a little silly in my apartment."

"I could do a smaller version," Neal said. "Or maybe a painting inspired by the sculpture?"

Sara raised her eyebrows. "A painting? For the living room?"

"Or the bedroom," Neal said, and slid his hand up the inside of her arm, "depending."

"Living room," she said firmly. "If I'm going to have a Neal Caffrey on my wall, I want to show it off."

"Not much to show off.” But he looked pleased, despite himself. 

"I think I'll be the judge of that," she said, and leaned over to kiss him. “So, what can we do to stop you from getting bored and digging through my files?”

“Hmm,” Neal said, smiling. “Chess?”

“I think that’d be more of an exercise in humility than I need, now that you’re no longer on a morphine drip. Try again.”

Neal shrugged. “Okay, then. Scrabble?”

Neal, Sara quickly discovered to her chagrin, was almost as good at Scrabble as he was at chess. When the doorbell rang two hours later, she was having her ass handed to her for the third time. She was gladder than she’d previously thought possible to hear Moz’s voice downstairs in the foyer. "Thank God," she said to him when he came upstairs. "I'm embarrassing myself."

Mozzie cast an eye over the board. "What were the stakes?"

"Nothing," Sara said, then muttered, "this time."

Moz snorted. "Amateur. Move over."

Sara slid off the bed. "Be my guest. I'm going to go help Elizabeth with dinner."

"You're going to cook?" Neal asked, raising his eyebrows. Sara glared. "I'm sure it will be delicious," he added hastily. 

Sara gave him a wry look. "I'm going to chop. I'm not sure that counts as cooking. Are you joining us for dinner, Mozzie?"

"And eat the lactose-laden food of The Man?" he replied, even as he reshuffled his Scrabble tiles. "Against my better judgment, yes."

Sara and Neal exchanged a glance. Sara decided it would be best to leave them to their own devices. "ROSWELL!" she heard Mozzie crow in triumph as she started down the stairs.

"That's a proper noun, Moz, it's against the rules."

"An arbitrary rule, _mon frère_. All part of how they teach you to color inside the lines.”

"Yeah, I'm still not letting you play ROSWELL."

Sara managed not to laugh until she was out of earshot. She was still chuckling as she came into the kitchen. "What's so funny?" Elizabeth asked, glancing up from washing some squashes, presumably out of the garden. 

"Mozzie," Sara said, shaking her head.

Elizabeth grinned. "He is strangely charming."

"Emphasis on the 'strangely,'" Sara said, smiling. "But unlike me, he has some hope of beating Neal at Scrabble. Chess, too, come to think of it."

"Oh God, you didn't let Neal talk you into chess, did you?"

Sara held her hands up. "Believe me, I have learned my lesson. All right, what can I do? I have to admit that I've never really learned how to cook, but I'm a pretty good sous chef."

"Can you chop veggies and shred cheese?" 

"I am a champion at both those things," Sara said, and fetched the cheese and veggies she'd bought out of the fridge. Elizabeth pulled a food processor out of a cabinet and started doing something complicated involving spices, cottage cheese, and milk. 

"I love this recipe," Elizabeth said, over the noise of the food processor. The noise ceased suddenly. "You don't even have to cook the macaroni. Oh, do you know what we need?"

"What?" Sara asked, glancing up from grating a pound - _dear God_ \- of sharp cheddar.

Elizabeth held up the bottle of Syrah Sara had bought. "Wine."

Sara smiled. "I like the way you think." Elizabeth poured two glasses and handed one to Sara. "Cheers," Sara said, holding hers up.

"Cheers," Elizabeth said. She tapped her glass against Sara's and turned back to the food processor.

It was actually quite pleasant to work side by side with Elizabeth in the kitchen, assembling a meal together. Once she was done with the food processor, Elizabeth pulled up Pandora on her laptop and set it to a jazz station, and Sara didn't even feel the need to make small talk. It was the first time since Neal had been hurt that Sara didn't feel Elizabeth was coming to her as some sort of emissary, trying to get her to open up and talk about her feelings. It had worked, to a degree, but it'd left her feeling a bit under siege. This was just relaxing. Fun, even. 

By the time the macaroni and cheese went into the oven, Sara had finished her first glass of wine and was on her second. She perched on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, watched as Elizabeth finished loading the dishwasher and set it to run, and suddenly found herself curious. "So tell me," she said, leaning on her elbows on the counter, "how did you and Peter meet?"

Elizabeth grinned. "There was a robbery at the gallery where I was working. I was a witness."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Elizabeth nodded. She brought her wine over and hitched herself up on one of the other stools. "He put me under surveillance because he was too afraid to ask me out."

"That's . . . sweet," Sara said dubiously.

Elizabeth laughed. "You're not the only person to have that reaction. It took years for some of my friends to be convinced that he wasn't going to turn into a stalker. Huh," she added, looking thoughtful. "Come to think of it, that's also how Peter met Neal, by surveilling him."

"You do that a lot, you know," Sara said, running her finger around the rim of her glass. "Compare Peter and Neal to Peter and you." _For better or worse_ , she'd said about Peter and Neal, the first time Sara had come to the Burkes' house. 

"Do I?" Elizabeth said, raising her eyebrows. "I've never thought about it. I don't know, I guess in some ways I do think of it as - this is going to sound very strange - Peter's second marriage. His work marriage, I'd say, except it's more personal than that."

"And that doesn't bother you?" 

Elizabeth shrugged. "Not really. I don't care for all the late nights, but Peter worked those long before he met Neal. I like the effect that Neal has on Peter. Don't ever tell either of them I said this, but Neal's made Peter a lot more fun."

Sara smiled. "Neal would never let Peter live that down if he knew."

"Oh God, I know." Elizabeth shook her head, smiling ruefully. "Anyway, it's true that Peter's put a lot into his relationship with Neal. It's not a normal friendship."

"No," Sara said quietly, "it isn't."

Elizabeth glanced at Sara. "Does it bother you?"

Sara took a long sip of wine. "I don't know," she admitted. "Sometimes, maybe. I - I was talking with my therapist a few days ago. She called Neal my partner, and I realized that neither of us had ever used the word. I'd only ever heard Neal use it to refer to Peter."

"I see," Elizabeth said. She was silent for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "It's okay to be uncomfortable with it, I think," she said at last. "It's easier for me - I have ten years of marriage to stand on with Peter. I trust him completely, and I know that however close he and Neal might be, that will never take away from what I have with him. You don't have all those years with Neal, and what time you have had has been rocky. It's okay that that trust isn't there yet."

"Yeah," Sara said slowly. "You might be right." She wasn't sure, though. Neal had so much tied up in his relationship with Peter - time, emotional energy, and yes, _trust_. Sometimes she wondered if the only way to get Neal Caffrey to really trust you was to put him in prison and then let him out again. "I just sometimes worry I can't compete. Your husband is a lot to measure up to."

"He is. But this isn't a competition, Sara. At the end of the day, all Peter really wants is for Neal to be happy. And you make him happy."

"I hope so.”

"I know so. And so does Peter."

The kitchen timer dinged. Elizabeth got up to take the foil off the top of the mac and cheese and put it back in the oven for the remainder of its time. Sara sipped her wine, and when Elizabeth sat back down, Sara asked her about her day. To her relief, Elizabeth let the change of subject pass without comment.

Dinner was a casual affair in the guest room. Sara ate sitting crosslegged on the bed beside Neal, while Elizabeth and Moz sat in chairs they'd dragged up from the dining room. Neal devoured two helpings of macaroni and cheese and then practically licked the plate. “What’s the secret?” he asked, scraping up the last bits of melted cheese with his fork. 

Elizabeth smirked. “A two to one ratio of cheese to pasta.” Sara, still toying with the last few spoonfuls of her own serving, put her fork down and quietly reached for the steamed veggies.

“Well, I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Four days of hospital food have clearly made you delirious.” But she looked pleased nonetheless. Sara had to admit that it was delicious. 

She hung back a bit once she'd finished eating and let the others carry the conversation - mostly Neal and Moz, she realized after a while. Elizabeth looked distracted and kept sneaking glances at her phone, but Sara couldn't tell if it was because she'd had a message from Peter or because she hadn't. Gradually Mozzie's good-natured banter with Neal became more and more one-sided, as Neal started to droop. The party broke up soon after, and Sara helped Elizabeth and Mozzie stack the plates to take downstairs. 

“Thanks for coming tonight, Moz,” Sara said, as Moz was putting his coat on in the foyer. “I know Neal appreciated it.”

Moz waved a hand. “I’ve done a lot more for Neal than come to Brooklyn. It was nothing.”

She cleared her throat. “Did he happen to mention -”

“Ah yes, your Rodin.” Moz looped a scarf around his neck. “I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll look into it. Neal’s right, that wasn’t a DIY job. I’ll be in touch, but I don’t do email, and I don’t share sensitive information over the phone.”

“I’ll be in the city on Tuesday, if you find anything before then.”

“If I do, I’ll let Neal know. Good night, Mrs. Suit!” he called toward the kitchen. _Night, Moz!_ Elizabeth called back. He looked at Sara. “Good night, Sara.”

“Good night, Mozzie,” Sara said, smiling as she saw him off at the door. She wandered back into the kitchen just in time to see Elizabeth close up the dishwasher. There was still a stack of pots and pans soaking in the sink, though, and Sara darted in before Elizabeth could get started on them. “These are mine,” she said. “Sit, have some more wine.”

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take Satchmo for a quick walk. I’ll be back in just a couple of minutes.”

Once Elizabeth had left, Sara poured herself another half glass of wine and started scrubbing. Most of the pans weren’t a problem, but the casserole dish had cheese baked onto it. By the time Elizabeth and the dog returned, she’d nearly managed to get it clean, and what was left would probably only come off with soaking.

"Thanks for doing that," Elizabeth said tiredly, as she hung Satchmo’s leash up by the back door. 

"No problem." Sara glanced over. "Have you heard from Peter?"

"Just a little bit ago. He said not to wait up."

"And will you?"

"Yes,” Elizabeth sighed. “Sometimes I don't, but I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, and I won't sleep well until I know he's safe. You should go to bed, though," she added. "Neal looked exhausted, and you had a long day, too."

Sara thought that perhaps she should insist on sitting up with Elizabeth, but truthfully she _was_ tired. "Okay. Have a good night, then."

"You, too," Elizabeth said with a tired smile. She took her glass of wine and went into the living room, while Sara started up the stairs. She paused halfway up and glanced down. She could just barely catch a glimpse of Elizabeth, sitting curled up on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, the television a faint murmur. Sara watched her for a moment and then went on. 

Upstairs, Neal was hobbling back from the bathroom. He'd changed into a pair of silk pajamas and looked a bit more like himself than he had in sweats. Sara pulled back the covers, and Neal sat down carefully on the bed, with a grateful sigh. "I'm so tired. I can't believe how tired I am," he groaned.

"You're healing. It's normal," Sara said, as she helped him swing his bad leg onto the bed. 

"I know," Neal said. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." He rubbed a hand over his face and grimaced. "I was wondering, would you help me shower and shave tomorrow?”

This, Sara thought, would be one of those embarrassing things that Peter had seemed to think she'd flinch from. "Of course," she said. "I'd be happy to help you." She reached down, rubbing her thumb over the scruff that covered Neal's chin. "You're looking a bit too much like a lumberjack for my tastes."

"And smelling like one, too," Neal said ruefully. Sara laughed and turned to rummage around in the dresser for pajamas. "Has El heard from Peter?"

"He texted a bit ago, said not to wait up. But she is anyway."

"Of course." Neal didn't speak again until Sara came back from brushing her teeth and crawled into bed beside him. Then he said, “I don’t like not being there to watch his back.”

"I know you don’t." Sara reached over and spread her hand out across Neal's chest. His heart beat against her hand, steady and strong. "But he'll be all right. You might not be there, but he still has good people backing him up."

"So did I," Neal said, so quietly that Sara almost didn't catch it.

Sara shifted closer to Neal, propping herself up on her elbow. "He'll be fine. You know how careful Peter is." He nodded. She brushed the hair out of his face with her fingers, then leaned down and kissed him. He whispered her name, very quietly, eyes on hers, and she kissed him again. She reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. "Get some rest," she told him, arranging herself carefully around him. 

"Don't think I have much choice," Neal said, voice already rough with sleep. But it took him longer than it should have to fall asleep; at least twenty minutes went by before Sara felt his breathing deepen and even out. Only then was she able to relax as well.

She woke to a dark room and the sound of voices in the hallway. Beside her, Neal shifted, trying to sit up. "Hmm?" she mumbled, only half-awake.

"Peter's home," Neal said, and tried to get up. 

"Don't," Sara told him, keeping him on the bed with a hand on his chest. She slid out of bed and grabbed her robe out of the closet. She opened the door and found Peter and Elizabeth in the hallway, both of them still dressed, Peter still wearing his shoulder holster. He looked positively gray with exhaustion. "Is everything okay?" Sara asked, tightening the belt of her robe. 

"Everything’s fine," Elizabeth said quietly. "Sorry for waking you."

"Peter?" Neal said.

"Hey, Neal," Peter said. He glanced at Sara, who stood aside with a _be my guest_ gesture. Peter went in and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Did you get them?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "We got them."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"One of the bad guys got winged, but he'll be fine. None of our people were hurt."

By the light from the hallway, Sara could see Neal sag in relief. Peter gripped Neal's shoulder, and Neal reached up and grasped his wrist. "You're okay," Sara heard Peter say, again in that gentle, almost tender voice. "Everyone's okay. Get some rest now, all right?"

"Yeah," Neal said, letting his head fall back to rest against the pillow. "You, too."

Peter came out, and Elizabeth immediately slid her arm around his waist. "Do you need anything?" she asked Sara.

Sara glanced toward Neal. It looked as though he were already halfway back to sleep. "No, we're all right. Get some rest yourself," she added to Peter. "You look dead on your feet."

"It's been a long week," Peter admitted. "But at least tomorrow's Sunday. Have a good night."

Sara nodded. "Good night." She slipped back inside the guest room and quietly shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti for beta reading!
> 
> A brief note: My version of Sara lives in Manhattan. I know that "Unfinished Business" places her in Park Slope, but I think later canon is confused on this, and for my purposes, she lives in Manhattan. (Maybe she moved after almost getting killed in her old place. Not totally unreasonable.)

Sunday morning dawned cold and wet. Sara woke up curled against Neal and lay for a few minutes without moving. Outside, rain pattered against the window; inside, Neal, still sleeping, pressed against her, the two of them creating a little pocket of warmth away from the rest of the world. 

As tempting as it was to lie there all morning, Sara eventually forced herself to get up. She took a quick shower and dressed quietly so as not to wake Neal. In the kitchen, she set the coffee to brewing and fetched the slightly damp paper from the front porch. The dog, on his bed in the living room, lifted his head and regarded her but didn't ask to go out; apparently it was too cold and rainy even for him. 

Sara poked around in the fridge for milk. Either Peter or Elizabeth had a weakness for half and half. There was one percent as well, but Sara decided that just this once, cream wouldn't kill her. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the counter to leaf slowly through _The New York Times_. 

She'd expected to have the house to herself for at least a couple of hours, considering how late Peter had come in the night before, but it was less than an hour before she heard the shower turn on upstairs. Sara's money was on Elizabeth, but it was Peter who came down fifteen minutes later, freshly scrubbed and surprisingly awake. 

"Good morning," she said. "Coffee's in the pot."

"Thank God," Peter said, and poured himself a cup. He took a long sip and slumped at the island, staring blearily outside at the rain. 

Awake but still tired, Sara deduced. "You should have slept in."

"It's after eight," Peter said. "That is sleeping in for me."

Sara smiled. "For me, too." She folded the paper up and stood to pour herself another cup. "Everything went well yesterday?"

"Well enough," Peter said. "There were a few tense moments, but it all turned out fine. How about here? El said you and Neal did okay."

Sara nodded. "Well enough," she echoed.

"Hmm," Peter said. "A few tense moments?"

"Mostly on the stairs."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to help. El has an event she has to supervise in the city this afternoon, but I'll be home all day today, if you need a break to run errands or something."

"I'm okay today and tomorrow," Sara said, "but if one of you could work from home on Tuesday, I have a standing appointment that I'd like to keep."

Peter nodded. "I'll work it out with El."

"Thanks."

An awkward silence ensued. Sara sipped her coffee and tried to appear as though it didn't bother her. She was so wrapped up in pretending, in fact, that when Peter broke the silence by clearing his throat, she nearly dropped her mug. "I'm sorry," he said. 

Sara frowned. "What?"

"I'm sorry. For the way I spoke to you that first night, and while Neal was in the hospital."

Sara shrugged, finding herself put off-balance by the suddenness and the sincerity of the apology. "It was a stressful time for everyone."

Peter shook his head. "Stressed or not, I misjudged you. The truth is that I didn't think you were capable of supporting Neal through this, but you've clearly proven me wrong. You've had every opportunity to push responsibility off onto El and me, and you haven't."

Sara looked down into the milky dregs of her coffee. "I won't say it's been easy."

"It isn't supposed to be," Peter said, in a surprisingly gentle tone. "The easy decisions don't make a relationship, Sara. The hard decisions are the ones that tell us how much the people we care about really mean to us. By the time you get to where El and I are, you've got a lot of mileage under your belt and a lot of hard decisions. That's where the trust comes from."

That explained a lot about her and Bryan. Sara looked at Peter. "You and Neal have a lot of hard decisions behind you."

"We do," Peter said, smiling a little. "You and Neal will, too, someday." He took a long sip of his coffee, then set his mug on the table. "All of that having been said . . ."

“What?” Sara asked, a little impatiently. Of course there had to be a catch. 

But what Peter said wasn't at all what she'd expected. “Be careful with him,” he said quietly. “Neal’s a lot more breakable than he lets on. He’s never told me very much, but I think he’s been disappointed a lot by people who should’ve been there for him.”

Sara thought of the look on Neal’s face when she’d told him she was thinking of taking a leave of absence from Sterling-Bosch. _For me?_ he’d said. And to think she’d assumed that was all about her. “I’m starting to get that. He doesn't talk much about his past."

Peter cocked his head, studying her. "Neither do you."

"That’s true, I suppose," she said, and shrugged. "Neal's past matters a lot less to me than who he is now, or we wouldn’t be together at all. But I will be careful," she added, before Peter could reply. 

"Thanks," Peter said. Upstairs, the shower turned on, and he cast a glance upward. "That's my cue," he said, standing. "How do you feel about bacon and eggs?"

After breakfast, Sara helped Neal shower, taping plastic over his bandages and helping him into and out of the tub. She let Peter supervise him while he shaved and used the opportunity to make the guest bed and shove their collective dirty laundry into Neal's empty duffel bag. 

By the time Neal was done in the bathroom, he and Peter were bickering amiably about what movie to watch. Peter said he'd seen _Ocean's Eleven_ about three times too many, but Neal was shamelessly playing the _I got shot_ card, and Sara was pretty sure he'd win. She wandered downstairs and wondered what she'd do with herself for the rest of the day. Elizabeth had already left for her event in the city. The rain had stopped, and the sun had even started to peek out. 

Satchmo trotted over to the front door, sat down, and whined. Sara regarded him. "Okay," she finally said, "but you'd better be on your best behavior."

She went upstairs and stuck her head into the guest room; with a complete lack of surprise, she noted the opening credits to _Ocean's Eleven_ playing on the TV. Neal looked pleased with himself, and Peter, sitting upright on Sara's half of the made-up bed with a stack of casefiles in his lap, didn't look half as disgruntled as he'd sounded. Sara cleared her throat to catch Peter's attention. "Is okay if I take the dog for a walk?" she asked.

Peter's eyebrows nearly crawled up into his hairline. "Sure," he said. "The leash is hanging by the front door. If he starts to pull, just give him a firm, 'Heel.' Oh, and take some plastic bags, they're in a box under the kitchen sink."

Sara barely managed not to make a face. That aspect of dog walking had slipped her mind. "Right, thanks.”

Satchmo was clearly pleased to be going outside and didn't care who was holding the other end of the leash. Sara let him tug her down the front steps to the sidewalk, where he turned right and started trotting along, stopping every few feet to sniff or pee. Since he seemed to know where he was going, Sara let him take the lead. With the exception of her brief trip to the grocery store, she hadn’t left the Burkes' house in the last twenty-four hours. It felt good to be out in the crisp fall air. 

Three blocks and one plastic baggie later, it was clear that Satchmo's intended destination was a park with an enclosed dog run. It looked muddy after that morning's rain, but not noticeably worse than any of the other grassy areas. Sara opened the gate and Satchmo tugged her through, straining at his leash. She unclipped it, and he bounded off toward the other dogs. 

There were a number of benches around the perimeter of the dog run. Sara sat on one of them, and one of the dog owners glanced up and smiled at her. Sara returned it reflexively, before thinking, with sudden, startling clarity, _She thinks I'm one of them._ She had the urge to tell the other woman, "Oh, he's not mine, I'm just borrowing him," but she managed not to. Barely. After all, it didn't matter what a random stranger thought of her, what assumptions they made. The Burkes' life wasn't a bad one. 

But it wasn't hers. And it wasn't one she'd ever wanted.

Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible, she thought, trying to imagine a future that looked like this. A future where Neal had finished his sentence and they'd moved in together, in a house like the Burkes'. With a dog and - _oh, hell_. She wondered if Neal wanted kids. He was certainly good with them, always had a magic trick up his sleeve. They adored him right back, of course, just like anyone or anything with a pulse. Neal could stay home, maybe work on commission as an artist or art restorer, and take care of the kid, and she could keep working for Sterling-Bosch, climbing the ladder. There were worse things to come home to every day than Neal Caffrey in her kitchen and their kid scooting around in one of those mobile play things. Sara knew women who would kill for that scenario. 

She didn’t know how long she sat there, staring into the middle distance at a future that intrigued and terrified her in equal measure. Long enough for it to cloud over again and for the other dog owners to leave. A raindrop landing on the tip of her nose finally forced her to stand and call Satchmo back. He left off sniffing around the other end of the dog run and trotted over, and Sara clipped his leash back on.

It was only a few blocks back to the Burkes', but by the time they got there, it'd started raining in earnest. Peter met them at the door with a ratty old towel to wipe down Satchmo. "I'd wondered if you'd gotten lost," he said to Sara, as she peeled off her outer layers in the foyer. 

"No, just lost track of time," she said. "We were at the park. How's Neal?"

"Asleep. He lasted about thirty minutes into the movie." Peter stood up and let Satchmo go. He glanced at Sara and frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly "But if you're going to be here, maybe I will run into the city and do a few errands."

"What, now?" Peter said dubiously. "It's pouring. El'll be back in a couple of hours. If you need something, I'm sure she could pick it up for you."

"Oh," she said. “That’s true." There was no reason for her to go into the city right now when it was pouring down rain outside. Her impulse to try and put some distance between herself and Neal was completely irrational. "It wasn’t anything important, I can take care of it on Tuesday."

Peter was still watching her, frowning faintly. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I was just about to make some lunch."

"I'm fine, thanks,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she was. And to think this morning she'd been thinking that she had a handle on this. And she did, she supposed, on the immediate situation. But the immediate situation raised the question of the long-term situation. If they weren’t just fooling around, then there were things they probably should talk about, things that Sara wasn’t sure she’d _ever_ be ready to talk about.

"Sara, did something happen?"

"What? No," Sara said, too quickly. "I said I'm fine."

"Are you -"

"I'm _fine_ ," Sara said sharply. Peter withdrew minutely, and Sara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just cold. I'm going to go hop in the shower for a few minutes to thaw out." 

She actually was cold, and her clothes were almost soaked through. She went upstairs and stole quietly into the guest room, where she got a pair of yoga pants and a sweater out of the dresser. She paused for a moment to watch Neal, the even rise and fall of his chest. It was silly to be thinking this way, she told herself, when they'd only been back together a few months. It was just their current situation, that was all. Once Neal was healthy again and everything was back to normal . . . 

Sara realized she didn't have an end to that thought. Would things really just go back to the way they'd been before Neal was shot? Romantic dinners and exciting sex a couple times a week, with the implicit understanding that neither of them was obligated to the other? That didn't seem right. The whole point of this awkward and painful exercise was that they _were_ obligated to each other. Neal had as good as said that he was falling for her, and Sara would've had to be stupid not to realize that she was falling for him. And there wasn't much point in falling, she thought, if you were just going to slam into the rock-hard realization that the two of you wanted totally incompatible things. 

She stood in the shower for a long time trying to get warm again. _Bottle it up until Tuesday_ , she told herself while under the spray. _Freak out at Kirsten before you freak out at Neal. That's what you pay her for._

By the time she got out of the shower, Sara felt like that might actually be possible. This was fortunate, because Neal was awake when she came back to the room. He smiled at her, sleepy still, and Sara found herself unable to resist when he patted the bed beside him. She stretched out alongside him, and Neal turned very carefully onto his side, nuzzling at her neck, trailing kisses up to her ear. "Don't start something you can't finish, Caffrey," she said fondly. 

"Fooling around a bit won't hurt me," he said, and she supposed it wouldn't, as long as they were careful. Sara shunted aside every bothersome thought she'd had about their future that morning, and kissed Neal. This, she thought, had always been very easy. They had always been good at this. 

The rest of the day passed quietly. Elizabeth came home, and the four of them spent the remainder of the rainy Sunday afternoon playing cards in the guest room, with an eventual digression into Trivial Pursuit. Sara expected Neal to be just as good at this as he was at everything else, but apparently Peter had an even greater capacity for useless knowledge, and Elizabeth was better than either of them when it came to pop culture. Sara found herself trailing behind but not really caring; it was enough to watch Neal and Peter rib each other over the board, while Elizabeth quietly collected pie pieces until suddenly, without either of the men having noticed, she won. 

It was hard to be anxious about the future while lounging beside Neal and laughing with Elizabeth. By the time Peter and Elizabeth went to bed, in anticipation of an early Monday morning, Sara had nearly managed to put her moment of panic at the park out of her head. 

“Want to watch a movie?” Neal asked, when she returned from brushing her teeth and changing into pajamas. 

“Sure,” she said. They spent a few minutes browsing Netflix and arguing amicably before deciding on _His Girl Friday_ , a screwball comedy Neal was horrified to learn Sara had never seen. 

"Who do they remind you of?" Neal asked, ten minutes into the film.

"Hmph," Sara said, though she had to admit she could see the resemblance. "All right, but if we were them, _I_ would be running that newspaper, and you'd be my guy Friday."

Neal leaned against her. "No argument there. You've always wanted to be on top, I bet."

Sara glanced at him sideways. "Never heard you complain before."

"No, ma'am," Neal said, with a smile.

Sara shrugged. "I like to be the best. And I hate being told what to do."

Neal let his head drop down to rest against her shoulder. "That's never bothered me either." He was quiet, watching as Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell bickered their way out of a restaurant. "I like that about you, in fact," he said, very quietly. Sara glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "I like that you want things.”

Sara bit her lip. "What do you want?" she asked, even though she was a little afraid of the answer. So much for repression.

Neal looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I'm still figuring it out. El says that's all right, she didn't know what she wanted to do until after she and Peter were married. And she says it might not be what she wants to do in ten years. We don't all have to be like Peter."

Sara nodded. Her hand came up to stroke Neal's hair. "That's good advice."

“Yeah,” Neal said. “I thought so, too.”

***

Sara had been worried about Monday, the first day she and Neal were really on their own, but it turned out she shouldn’t have been. They slept late, and Sara made breakfast, for a certain value of “make” that involved slicing up bananas into bowls of cereal and pouring two glasses of orange juice. She showered and dressed, then helped Neal change into fresh pajamas, taking the opportunity to check his wounds for redness or inflammation or other signs of infection. There were none.

A little before noon, Neal settled back on the bed, having found a series of documentaries on Renaissance painters on Netflix. Sara sat beside him, laptop on her lap and box of files on the floor beside the bed. An email had come in early that morning from her research assistant. The “uncle” from whom Rita Malone had supposedly inherited the money that’d gotten her out of debt had lived on Long Island, or at least that was the address given for his estate. The police had checked it out, and it seemed that there really was a dead uncle; he’d been dead for almost two years, in fact. The money - all two hundred grand - had been transferred into Malone’s account three days after the robbery.

Sometimes it really did take that long, Sara knew, especially if the will was disputed for any reason. It could have been an enormous and rather unfortunate coincidence. But her instincts were telling her that it wasn’t.

After half an hour or so, she became aware that Neal was watching her. “What?” she asked, glancing at him. 

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking. Why don’t you talk to her?”

“Who?”

“Rita Malone. Go talk to her, see what she says.”

“She already talked to the police. I doubt her story will change for me.”

Neal shrugged and reached for the remote, pausing his documentary. “You never know. After all, all you care about is getting the sculpture back - you’re not out to have her arrested.”

“True,” she said slowly. “But why would she help me?”

“She might not. But sometimes, people get into things because they’re desperate, and afterward, they realize they’re in over their heads. Look at her.” Neal pulled out the top sheet of Sara’s file, the one with the snapshot of Malone and her daughter. “No priors, not so much as a parking ticket. She’s not a criminal.”

Sara had to admit he had a point. “So what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Ask her for coffee and tell her to trust me?”

Neal shrugged. “It’s what I would do.”

“Yes, well.” Sara snapped the file shut. “I’m lacking a few of your assets.”

“You’ve got plenty of assets,” Neal replied, winking.

“I don’t think they’re the sort Rita Malone is interested in.”

“Maybe not,” Neal conceded, “but that’s not really the point. You just need to make a connection. Listen,” he said, when she looked at him dubiously, “this one time, this guy I worked with for two seconds, Ryan Wilkes, decided he needed me to do him a favor. He made me run a con on a woman who worked in a travel agency.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Made you?”

Neal grimaced. “There was a sniper involved. It was a bad day. I got tased. _Twice_.”

“Ouch.”

“No kidding. Anyway, I walked in, turned on the charm, and hit a brick wall. This woman was completely unimpressed with me. She didn’t think I was cute or charming, and she didn’t see why she should give me what I needed because I smiled at her.”

“I like her already.”

“I would have, too, but I had about thirty seconds to convince her to trust me or Wilkes was going to put a bullet in her brain.”

Sara found herself fascinated despite herself. These things just didn’t happen to other people. “How’d you do it?”

“The only thing I knew about her from Wilkes was that she had kids. I saw that she had a stuffed University of Iowa mascot on her desk, and I made her believe that I was a single dad from Cedar Rapids.”

Sara frowned. “And that worked?”

“Yeah, it did. I made a connection with her, she gave me what I needed, no one got hurt.”

“A charming story, Caffrey,” Sara said, turning onto her side and pulling her legs in toward her chest. “But I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make a connection with a twenty-nine year old housekeeper who most likely helped someone steal a priceless sculpture from her boss.”

Neal shrugged. “I don’t know either. This isn’t a paint by numbers thing. But if you go in there with your baton and your four inch heels, she’s going to spook.”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “Are you insulting my baton? _Or_ my shoes?”

He held his hands up innocently. “I’m just saying, you can be a little scary. And while I find that sexy, Rita Malone probably won’t. You might want to take a friendlier approach.”

“Friendlier,” Sara repeated. She tapped her fingers against her leg. “Right.” She had trouble enough being friendly with people she actually was friends with, much less a random stranger. Neal made it look as easy as breathing, but it wasn’t. “I don’t know if I can fake it the way you can.”

Neal grinned. “You see, that’s the secret.”

“What is?”

“I’m never faking it. I might be _lying_ , but I’m not faking it. When there isn’t a sniper involved, at least,” he amended. “And in this case, you don’t even need to lie to her. Just be a slightly nicer version of yourself.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks, Caffrey.” But there was no heat behind it. He was right. The smiling woman in the photo wasn’t like the scumbags she usually chased. Sara didn’t really want to see her arrested, even if she had left a door or two unlocked.

She flipped back through to the information her research assistant had given her. Malone had Tuesdays off, and her daughter had violin lessons in the afternoon. She’d pay her a visit tomorrow, Sara decided.

Neal was still watching her. “You want to roleplay it?” he asked, and though he wasn’t smiling, there was a distinct dimple showing at the corner of his mouth.

She hit him with a throw pillow. “No, I do not want to roleplay it. I can be nice, you know.”

The dimple vanished. “I do.” He hesitated. “But it might not hurt to try it more often.”

Sara’s temper flared, sudden and hot. “Easy for you to say. _Nice_ women don’t get to be where I am. Do you know how many other women there are at my paygrade at Sterling-Bosch? None. There are no other women. You have the luxury of being nice, Neal. You were born with a Y chromosome and a dick. Some of us weren’t that lucky.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Neal said, raising his hands. “I’m sorry.”

The fit of temper burned out as quickly as it’d begun. Sara sighed. “No, don’t be. That wasn’t fair of me. It’s just, you’re not the first person to say something like that to me recently.” 

Neal frowned. “Peter?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

Neal’s frown deepened. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No, no, don’t. We worked it out. He apologized.” 

Neal nodded, though he was still frowning. “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think - it’s really not that I want you to change.” She nodded, looking down at her hands. “But sometimes I get the impression that you’re conning everyone just as much as I am. How long has it been since you let someone meet the real Sara Ellis?”

Sara winced. And that, she thought, was the problem with dating a con man, however reformed he might be. He could smell a lie, however big or small, from a mile away. She looked him in the eye. “I’m sure you’re more of an expert than I am on this, but the thing about putting on a facade is that if you do it long enough -”

“- it becomes real.”

“Yeah.” She looked at him. “This is who I am. It’s not who I used to be, but it’s who I am now.”

“I know,” Neal said. He picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “And I don’t want you to change who you are. I just wonder if you wouldn’t be happier if you let go once in a while.” 

She shook her head. “I’m happy as I am.” Most of the time, and there weren’t many people who could truthfully say more than that. “But you’re probably right about this. I’ll go talk to Malone tomorrow, see if I can get somewhere with her.”

“Good.” He picked up the remote and took the documentary off pause. Sara shifted all her files onto the floor, and pulled Neal down so his head lay in her lap. She stroked her fingers slowly through his hair, and he sighed. “See, you’re much nicer than you let everyone else think.”

She gave a brief tug on the short hair right over his ear. “Don’t push your luck, Caffrey.”

***

Tuesday morning at ten, Sara kissed Neal good-bye and called a cab to take her into the city. Elizabeth was working from home in the morning, and Peter intended to come home around three or four, so that she could put in a few hours at her office. Sara thought there was a good chance she’d be home by then, depending on how things went with Malone, but Peter and Elizabeth had both assured her it wasn’t any trouble. Neal had been annoyed with all the scheduling, resenting the implication that he required a baby-sitter. But since he still couldn’t navigate the stairs without pain, he’d been forced to concede the necessity. 

Sara went to her apartment first, to check the mail and grab a few more clothes. The mail was mostly bills, and she put a stack of them in her purse to take care of once she got back to Brooklyn. Then she emptied the duffel bag of dirty clothes she’d brought with her and re-packed it with more jeans, sweaters, and underwear. She set it in the hallway to pick up on her way back that evening.

It was strange to be home. The apartment felt weirdly sterile, as though no one had lived here in a long time, even though it’d only been a few days. Her furniture was tasteful, expensive, and utterly bland compared to Elizabeth and Peter’s cozy living room. Sara was relieved when it came time to catch a cab uptown to Kirsten’s office. 

Kirsten was running slightly behind, and Sara had to cool her heels in the waiting area for a minute or two. It gave her just enough to time to start thinking about all the things she’d been avoiding thinking about until she could discuss them with Kirsten. By the time Kirsten opened the door to her office, Sara’s palms had started to sweat. “Sorry about that,” Kirsten said, once Sara had seated herself across from her. “How’s Neal?”

“Better,” Sara said, and she didn’t even have to force her smile. “He’s doing a lot better. He got discharged from the hospital on Saturday.”

“That’s great to hear. And how are you doing?”

“Also better,” Sara said. And then, in the interest of full disclosure, “Mostly. We’re both staying with Peter and Elizabeth.”

“How’s that been?”

“Weird,” Sara admitted. “But not bad.”

Kirsten nodded. “Weird in what way?”

Sara frowned. It was harder than she’d expected to put into words everything that she’d felt on Saturday. “It’s like this whole other life I never thought I’d have,” she said at last. “With a partner, and friends, even a family. I took the dog for a walk, I cooked dinner with Elizabeth, we played Trivial Pursuit, for God’s sake.”

“That sounds nice,” Kirsten remarked, leaning back in her chair.

“If you like that sort of thing.”

Kirsten raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Sara opened her mouth, closed it, and shrugged. “I don’t know. A week ago, I’d have said absolutely not. A week ago, the whole idea would’ve horrified me.”

Kirsten nodded. “Has that much really changed in a week?”

Sara shook her head slowly. “No,” she said, “I don’t think so. I think it’s been changing for months, and I just didn’t realize it.” Kirsten nodded again but didn’t say anything. There was a miniature fountain on her desk; for a moment, Sara watched it, letting her mind empty itself out. “I’m still sort of - not horrified. Terrified, I guess. But it’s not a bad life. It’s not - it’s not lonely.” She forced herself to look at Kirsten. “I’ve never thought of myself as lonely.”

Kirsten looked thoughtful. “Sometimes we hide that sort of thing from ourselves, especially if we’re not ready to make the changes necessary to do something about it. If you’re realizing it now, maybe it means you _are_ ready.”

Sara made a face. “So, what? I marry Neal when his sentence is up, buy a house in Brooklyn, pop out a kid?”

Kirsten gave her a wry half-smile. “There might be worse fates. But no, that’s not what I’m saying. There’s no one right way to be, Sara.”

Sara sighed. “Neal told me yesterday that I could try being nicer sometimes. I snapped at him. I don’t know that I want to be _nice_. I’ve spent a lot of time becoming who I am. I don’t see why I should change now.”

“You shouldn’t,” Kirsten said, “if it makes you happy. But if you think it isn’t making you happy, then that bears some reflection, don’t you think?”

Sara wrinkled her nose. “Reflection. Great.”

Kirsten smiled. “It is good for the soul.” Sara gave her a dubious look, but her smile only widened. “Just think about it. You’ve been living your life a certain way for a long time now.”

“Nine years. Except for Bryan, I guess. But even with Bryan . . .” Sara frowned. “I’m starting to think that Bryan’s main appeal was that he demanded almost nothing from me. We worked at the same place, had the same priorities - for a while, at least. I didn’t have to compromise anything with him. He didn’t make me question anything about myself.”

Kirsten nodded. “And Neal?”

Sara shrugged. “He hasn’t demanded anything of me so far. But he’s - we’re different. Bryan and I were very similar. Neal and I are different, but we still work.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘complementary.’”

“Yes. We complement each other. Mostly. But I think there will still be things I have to compromise on. And that he will, too. I just don’t know what those will be yet. Or even if - if I can.” That was her real fear, Sara realized. That when it came down to it, she just wouldn’t be able to give. That she’d thought only of herself for too long and didn’t know how to adapt to fit with someone else. Peter had said as much, and he might be right.

“If the relationship is worth it, you will,” Kirsten said firmly. Sara wished she felt half as confident.

With five minutes left in her session, Sara felt her phone buzz, indicating a text message. She waited until she’d left Kirsten’s office before glancing at it. It was from Neal: _Moz called, says he has info. He wants to meet you in CP by the boathouse at 1:30. Buy a NYT and say ‘the nightingale sings at noon.’_

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Sara said aloud, earning herself a look from a passer-by. 

She refused to give in to the insanity. She bought the most recent _Vanity Fair_ and sat on the bench by the boathouse, flipping through it and keeping an eye out for short, annoying bald men. Ten minutes went by before she finally spotted Mozzie lurking behind some foliage. He wore a trenchcoat, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. She strode over, shoved the branches back, and hauled him out. “ _Dateline_ is going to run a special on you one of these days,” she told him. 

“The nightingale hasn’t sung!” he snapped, turning away.

She reached out and caught him by the back of his coat. “It sang fifteen minutes ago. Sit down and tell me what you’ve got, Moz.”

“Fine,” Moz said, straightening his coat. “But only because Neal asked me to.”

“Of course.” Sara reclaimed her spot on the bench, and after a moment of scowling, Moz sat down beside her. “What’d you find out?” 

“We were right, it was a commissioned job. Someone was asking around about a mover right before the Rodin was taken. Good money, very hush-hush.”

“Any word on who offered the job?” she asked. “Or on who took it?”

“No word on the employer,” Moz said, “but I’ve got a line on the thief.”

Sara raised her eyebrows. “A line? You mean a name?”

Moz snorted. “Something like that. But you’re not getting it. He doesn’t have the sculpture anymore, and he’s not going to tell you who hired him.”

“He might tell my baton,” Sara said, sweetly. 

“Ah, no,” Moz said. “ _I_ might tell your baton. This guy would break your baton in half. But I’m meeting him later today for drinks. We’ll see if I can’t loosen him up and get him to tell me what he knows.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I let Neal suck me into these things. He might be out of the game, but I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Well,” Sara said, with a wry half-smile, “I appreciate it. I realize I’m probably not your favorite person.”

“Eh.” Moz glanced at her sideways. “When you’re not standing between me and the score of a lifetime, you’re not so bad. You’re comfortable with life in the gray zone, which makes you more palatable than the Suit, and you don’t make Neal act unbearably _stupid_ , which makes you better than people I don’t wish to speak ill of.”

Sara suspected that from Moz, that counted as a ringing endorsement. “Well, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Moz glanced up and down the path, then looked upward, as though checking the position of the sun in the sky. “I have to go, but Mrs. Suit asked me for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll let you know what I find out then.”

“Great.” Sara watched with amusement as Moz flipped the collar of his coat up, pulled his hat down low over his face, and scurried off. It said a lot about New York that he barely garnered a glance from anyone he passed. She rolled her eyes - albeit, she feared, rather fondly - and pulled out her phone. “You have strange friends,” she told Neal when he answered. 

“I know,” he said, unapologetically. “Did the nightingale sing?”

“I damn near strangled the nightingale.”

He laughed. “Did he at least have something for you?”

“Sort of. He might have more by tomorrow night. How are you?”

“Bored out of my skull. How’s the rest of your day been?”

“All right so far. Oh, I meant to ask before I left the house, is there anything you want me to get from June’s for you?”

“Actually, if it isn’t too much trouble, my charcoals and pastels. They’re tucked in a hidden wall panel next to the fireplace.”

Sara raised her eyebrows. “You mean the one where you hid the FAA report you stole from my apartment?” 

“Er. Yes. That one.”

“You know, most people would just keep them in a drawer.”

“Would you find me at all interesting if I were most people?” 

“Touché,” Sara said, smiling. “I’ll pick those up for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“Yup. See you tonight.” Sara hung up and slipped her phone into her purse. Moz was working the thief angle. It was time to see what she could do with Rita Malone. 

The Upper West Side apartment where Malone’s daughter attended private violin lessons twice a week after school was only a short walk away. Sara bought a coffee at the Starbucks across the street and sat at an outside table, watching the entrance to the building. At 2:50, a woman wearing sunglasses came up the street, holding a miniature version of herself by the hand. Sara double-checked her against the picture of Malone from the file; it was definitely her. She just hoped she didn’t usually stay to listen to her daughter’s lesson. 

She didn’t. Five minutes after she and her daughter went in, Malone came back out alone. Sara prepared to get up and follow her, but she didn’t have to; Malone glanced both ways and then jaywalked, heading straight for the Starbucks. 

Sara waited until she’d ordered and sat down inside before going in and getting a refill. Then she seated herself near the window, within reasonable speaking distance of Malone. _Make a connection,_ she heard Neal tell her. She resisted the urge to grimace. 

Sara cleared her throat. Malone looked up. “Hi,” Sara said. “Are you Rita Malone?”

Malone looked instantly guarded. “Who wants to know?”

Sara took a business card out from her wallet. “I’m Sara Ellis. I’m an insurance investigator with Sterling-Bosch.”

Malone leaned away, refusing to take her card. “I already talked to the police.”

“I know. I’ve read your statement.”

“I don’t have anything to add. I’m sorry, Ms. Ellis, you’re wasting your time.” She pulled a book out of her bag and opened it, apparently at random. 

Not a great start, Sara had to admit. But she bet Neal could come back from worse; in fact, she’d seen him do it. If he could do it, so could she. “Your daughter is at the School for Strings, isn’t she?” Sara asked. Malone gave barely a twitch of acknowledgment. “It’s hard to get in there. She must be very talented.”

“She is,” Malone said, still not looking up. 

“It must be difficult to afford such an expensive school on your salary.”

Malone did look up then. “Do you have children, Ms. Ellis?”

Briefly, Sara considered lying. But she didn’t think that would end well. Having kids wasn’t the sort of thing she thought she could fake, especially to a woman who did have them. “No,” she admitted. 

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to believe me when I tell you that when it’s for your kid, you make it work. In this case, I got lucky.”

“Your inheritance from your uncle, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Two years is a long time to wait for money like that to come in.” 

“My cousin disputed the will. But we finally settled out of court. Privately.”

Convenient, that. If the whole thing was done behind closed doors, it would be covered by attorney-client privilege. Sara nodded. “I understand.” She paused, twisting her coffee cup between her hands. “Can I tell you a story?”

Malone sighed. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I know,” Sara said apologetically. “And I wish I didn’t have to. But I think that if you listen to me, I can help you.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I need help?”

“Just hear me out.”

Malone closed her book but kept a finger in it to mark her place. “Fine. But you have to promise that if I hear you out, you’ll leave me and my daughter alone from now on.”

“I promise,” Sara said. Malone nodded and waited. Sara took a deep breath and tried to channel Neal. He’d spin this story in some way that would make Malone the sympathetic hero, she thought. “There was once a mother who cared very much about her daughter,” she began, after only the briefest of hesitations. “She wanted her daughter to have opportunities that she’d never had, because that’s what all parents want for their children. Her daughter was very talented and got into a special school. The special school was expensive, but the mother had a wealthy relative, an uncle, who promised that he’d look after both of them. But then he died, and something went wrong - a greedy cousin, perhaps. The money took too long to come through, or maybe it didn’t come through at all.”

Malone’s mouth tightened. “I don’t think I much like this story.” 

“The mother was approached by someone who knew her situation,” Sara went on, speaking more quickly out of the fear that Malone would simply get up and leave. She wouldn’t get another shot at this. “He told her that he could make all her problems go away. All she had to do was leave a few doors unlocked. A couple hundred thousand dollars would pay her daughter’s tuition for years, and so she did it, probably not even knowing what would happen. And a priceless sculpture disappeared.”

Malone was outright glaring now. “Sounds like this woman was pretty stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Sara said. “Desperate, I think.” Malone’s mouth twisted wryly. “But the story doesn’t end there. The woman was surprised at how quickly all hell broke loose. The police found out right away about her problems paying for her daughter’s school. She had the cover story with the inheritance, but that wouldn’t hold forever. The police might not uncover it, but they weren’t the only ones interested. Sooner or later, someone was going to find out. She was in over her head, and she knew it.”

Malone shook her head. “Even if she knew it, it’d be too late. What’s done is done.”

Sara shrugged. “Maybe not. Here’s what I think, Rita.” She leaned in toward Rita and dropped her voice. “You’re not a criminal. You just made a bad decision. And I’m not the police. I don’t serve justice, I serve my company’s clients.”

For the first time, Sara saw something like doubt in Malone’s eyes. “I see.”

“All I need from you is a name. Who approached you, Rita? You didn’t want to do it to begin with. If we recover the sculpture, all the pressure on you will go away.”

For a moment, she watched Malone waver, indecisive. Sara held her breath. But at last Malone shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.” She started to stand. 

“Take my card at least,” Sara said, pressing it on her. Malone accepted it, reluctantly. “If you think of anything, please call me. My cell phone number is on there.”

Malone nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Sara watched Malone leave, hurrying out of the shop and down the street, head down and shoulders hunched. She sighed. Neal would’ve handled that brilliantly, she was sure. But at least she’d gotten Malone to listen. Maybe she’d call. Maybe. 

She collected Neal’s art supplies from June’s and her own things from her apartment, then caught a cab back to Brooklyn. It was rush hour and traffic was slow; Sara tried not to fidget, thinking about what she would do if Malone didn’t call. Maybe Mozzie’s lead would pan out. But she needed the man behind the curtain, the one who right now had a six million dollar Rodin gathering dust in his back room. She wasn’t sure that either lead would take her to him. 

Her phone buzzed while she was sitting in gridlock on the BQE. _How’d it go?_ Neal asked. 

_Could’ve gone better,_ she texted back, _but also worse. She didn’t give me anything, but she might yet. Should I pick up something for dinner?_

_No, Peter’s making pot roast. Will you be home soon?_

_Yes,_ Sara typed out, smiling. _I’ll be home soon._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone. I've been traveling the last few days. The last couple of chapters may slow down to one a week.
> 
> Beta credit to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti, as usual.

Sara was lying in wait for Mozzie when he came to dinner on Wednesday night. She pounced the moment he got his coat off, almost before Elizabeth had managed to offer him a glass of wine. "Well?" she asked, handing him a glass of the red Elizabeth had opened. "Did you get him to talk?"

"Yes," Moz said, accepting the glass and swirling, "but it doesn't look like he's your guy. He took a heavy-lifting job about that time, but it wasn't the Rodin."

Sara's shoulders sagged. "Are you sure?"

Moz nodded. "As sure as I can be. He might've been lying, but he had about five shots of scotch in him by then. He said he wished he could say it'd been him."

Sara sighed. "Well, thanks for trying."

"Don't mention it. Or go making it a habit," Mozzie added sternly, and took his wine upstairs to bother Neal. 

When Sara turned around, Elizabeth was watching her with a raised eyebrow. "What was that about?" she asked. 

Sara grimaced. "I might've kept one case when I went on leave. A stolen Rodin. Moz was looking into something for me, but it didn't pan out. I have another lead I've been following, but that was sort of my best bet." She followed Elizabeth back into the kitchen and picked up her own wine glass, already half empty. She perched on one of the stools at the island.

Elizabeth picked up where she'd left off, chopping an onion into fourths to stuff inside the chicken she was roasting for dinner. "You never mentioned you’d kept a case," she remarked.

"Neal knows," Sara said. "And no, I didn't. I was a little afraid of what Peter would say." _And you_ , she didn't add. From the look Elizabeth gave her over her shoulder, Sara thought she might as well have. "I just - my boss asked me to. The victim was a friend of his. And it's my favorite Rodin."

"Hmm. Which one?"

" _The Kiss_."

"Nice." Elizabeth finished stuffing the chicken and began cracking salt over it. "You don't have to worry about winning Peter's approval, you know. You're not dating _him_."

"No, but my life will certainly be easier if he likes me. And I felt strange about keeping the case," Sara admitted. "I didn't want to give it up, but I felt like I should have."

Elizabeth bent to slide the chicken into the oven. "Well, I bet it's keeping Neal entertained." She straightened and turned to retrieve of her own glass of wine from the sideboard. "Seriously, Sara, it's fine. You and Neal need to figure out what works for you. That might not be what works for Peter and me."

"It would help if you two didn't have the world's most perfect marriage," Sara muttered.

Elizabeth smiled. "I assure you, if it looks that way, it's only because you're not on the inside. Mind chopping a cucumber for the salad?"

"Not at all," Sara said, and went to get a cutting board and a knife. 

Sara's phone stayed silent on Thursday. Late in the afternoon, she got an email from Winston Bosch, requesting an update, and she replied with something vague about following up on a lead. If she were in the city, she thought, she'd have tailed Rita Malone for a day or two to see if she made contact with anyone suspicious. But she wasn't in the city. She was in Brooklyn, and she was starting to itch for something to do. 

She got her wish in a bad way on Friday morning, when Neal woke up with a wheezy cough and a fever. It was only 100.3, but when Sara called, Neal’s doctor was concerned enough to have her take him into urgent care. 

"This is stupid," Neal muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed in black track pants and a faded college sweatshirt Sara was pretty sure belonged to Peter. "It barely even counts as a fever."

"It counts," Peter said firmly. He was leaning in the threshold, dressed for the day in his usual gray suit. "You heard what the nurse said about the risk of infection after splenectomies."

"Yes," Neal said sulkily. "I did. I don't need a repeat lecture."

Peter eyed him a moment and then looked at Sara. "You're sure you don't need me to come?"

"I'm sure," she said, sliding her feet into her shoes.

"El has a banquet in the city tonight, but I'll do my best to make it home on time. With matzo ball soup if you're good," he added to Neal.

Peter helped Neal navigate the stairs - which were much easier than they had been on Saturday, Neal’s balance having improved considerably - and then stood by while Sara got Neal bundled into the car. "You'll call if you need anything?" he said to her.

"Of course," she said. "Go, Peter. It's all under control." She almost believed it herself. 

To Peter's credit, he only glanced back once as he walked away. Sara, sliding behind the wheel of Elizabeth's Civic, gave him a wave and a smile. Neal, when she glanced over, looked anything but cheery. He was gray and drooping in his seat, and when she reached over to feel his forehead, he didn't even bother to flinch away. "How're you feeling?" she asked. “Don’t lie to me.”

He sighed, then coughed. "Like hell,” he managed, voice gravelly. “Let's get this over with."

The words “emergency splenectomy” and “fever” worked like magic at the urgent care clinic. Despite the dozen or so people sitting slumped around the waiting area, Sara and Neal only had to wait a few minutes. Sara started to stand when the nurse called Neal in, but the nurse gestured for her to stay. "I’ll come get you once the doctor has completed the examination, if Mr. Caffrey requests it," she said, and ushered Neal into the back. 

Unsettled, Sara sat down and picked up a battered copy of _People_ with the subscription address cut out. She leafed through it slowly, reading about the celebrity breakups of 2010, and kept one eye on the door. Nurses came in and out, calling people's names, but it was forty-five minutes before Neal’s nurse returned. "Ms. Ellis?" she said. "Mr. Caffrey would like to see you." Sara dropped the magazine onto a side table and followed her into the back.

The curtained-off exam cubicle the nurse showed her to was tiny; Sara could understand why they'd made her wait outside. Neal was still wearing his track pants, but from the waist up he was clad in a paper smock. He looked relieved to see her, reaching for her hand as she entered. She kissed his forehead and sat in a chair by his bed. "What'd the doctor say?"

Neal sighed. "He thinks I have an incipient upper respiratory infection."

Sara frowned. "You've been taking your antibiotics."

"That's what I said, but the doctor said they weren't the right kind. They took a bunch of blood and sent it off to the lab, and in the meantime they're going to give me some different antibiotics through an IV." 

As if on cue, the nurse came in with an IV stand and two bags of clear liquid, one large and one small. "We're going to give you some saline while we're at it," she told Neal. "Did the doctor talk to you about possible side-effects?"

He nodded. "He said he'd prescribe me something for nausea."

"Good," she said, and busied herself setting up the IV line. Neal watched her put it in; Sara did not. She watched Neal instead, resting her fingers against the side of his neck and stroking it lightly. He squeezed her hand. "This will take a couple of hours," the nurse said, when she was done. "I'll check on you in a bit." She left, closing the curtain behind her. 

Neal turned his head to look at Sara. "Sorry about this.” 

"Don't apologize. I'm just glad we came in."

Neal sighed. "I guess. But it isn’t just this once. The doctor was telling me that I should make sure I always have a round of antibiotics on hand, and if I get sick, I should come in, instead of waiting to see if it clears up on its own. I don’t think I realized - I mean, I know the nurse at the hospital mentioned vaccines, but I guess I thought it was like losing your appendix."

"Not quite." She squeezed his hand. "You'll be okay.”

He grimaced. "Having a chronic health condition makes it sort of hard to be an International Man of Mystery."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning on going anywhere any time soon, Man of Mystery?"

"No," Neal said, and it might've just been the fever, but the look he gave her was unexpectedly soft. She stroked her fingers through his hair. "I can dream, though. No harm in that."

"True." She crossed one leg over the other and said, "Okay, then. If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?"

"Hmm." Neal tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "It's going to sound clichéd, but I think the Arc de Triomphe has the best view in Paris. I'd get someone to close it off for us at dusk and set up a table. We'd sip wine by candlelight and watch as the sun set over the city and all the lights came on."

There were perks to dating a romantic, Sara thought. She didn't like to think of herself as the sort of person who'd fall all over herself for a grand romantic gesture, but she wasn't totally immune, either. "Very nice."

"What about you? Where'd you be if you could be anywhere else right now?"

"A private beach somewhere," Sara said promptly. "Hawaii, maybe, or the Caribbean. No one around but us, and a never-ending supply of mai tais."

Neal looked amused. "But where would the mai tais come from if there was no one else around?"

"Our cabana, of course."

"Oh right," Neal said, smiling now. "I didn't realize there was a cabana."

Sara waved this away. "Of course there's a cabana. You didn't expect me to _camp_ on our private beach, did you?"

"No, no," Neal said quickly. "Perish the thought. Okay, I think I have this now. Cabana, mai tais, private beach. Check."

"Good. Your turn."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "We're doing turns? All right." He frowned, thoughtfully. "There's this restaurant on the Amalfi coast that I've always wanted to go back to, in this tiny seaside town I ended up hiding out in for a while. There were maybe five tables altogether in a sunny courtyard with a beautiful mosaic floor. Clean salt air and the freshest caprese I’ve ever tasted. You'd love it."

Sara was sure she would. Something for them to do once the anklet was off, perhaps. “I'm surprised, Caffrey. I thought you'd choose some exotic locale I'd never heard of, but so far you've done France and Italy."

Neal shrugged. "Don't slight the classics for being classic. They're that way for a reason."

The nurse came back before Sara had time to take her next turn. She checked the IV bag and asked Neal how he was feeling. Neal looked like he was two seconds away from lying, but Sara dug her thumb nail very lightly into his palm, and he seemed to change his mind. "Is there any chance I could get that nausea medication?" he asked. 

The nurse nodded. "Let me see what I can do." She disappeared. 

Sara frowned at Neal. "Why didn't you say you were feeling sick?"

Neal twitched his fingers. "Just started. And I'm fine." He swallowed. "Your turn."

Sara didn't think; she just spoke. "Your apartment at June's, with you, after getting back from dinner with the team. Champagne in a bucket by the bed, and your silk sheets."

Neal looked regretful. "I'm sorry we didn't get to do that."

 _Damn_. "No, I didn't mean -" Sara sighed. "I just meant, if I could be anywhere right now, that's where I'd want to be."

"Me, too," he said quietly. He was quiet, then. Sara didn't remind him that it was his turn. She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. "I used to play that game with myself in prison," he said at last. "I'd lie there for hours, staring at the ceiling of my cell, imagining where Kate and I would go, what we'd do, once I was out." He sighed. "That seems so long ago now, but I guess it wasn't."

"Not very long, no."

"Sometimes I wonder," Neal said, and then stopped, his face blanching. He swallowed, but Sara was already grabbing for the pink, kidney-shaped bowl the nurse had left them. She got there just in time and held it there with one hand while reaching for the call button with the other. Fortunately the nurse was fast; within a few seconds, she was there, injecting something into the IV line. "That should help," she said. Sara gladly relinquished control of the bowl and stepped aside, rubbing Neal's back and trying not to make an involuntary face. 

After what felt like minutes, but probably wasn’t more than thirty seconds or so, Neal slumped back with a groan. "That should last you a while," the nurse said, tidying everything away with brisk efficiency. "But the antibiotics you're on often make people ill, because they don't know the difference between the good bacteria in your stomach and the bad bacteria that's infecting you. I'll make sure there's an prescription for oral Compazine waiting in the hospital pharmacy for you to pick up on your way out."

"Thanks," Neal said in a hollow voice.

"Are you sure he shouldn't stay overnight?" Sara asked, frowning. Neal made a noise of protest, but she ignored him. 

"Dr. Higgins thinks that the rest he’ll get at home is more beneficial than a hospital stay," the nurse said. "But don't worry, we'll have instructions for you."

Neither of them spoke much while they waited for Neal's IV to finish. Neal coughed periodically, wet and rough. Peter texted in the late morning to ask how things were going. _Could be better,_ Sara wrote back, with the hand that wasn’t holding Neal’s, _but no hospital stay required. They have him on antibiotics._

Peter texted back, _I'm going to try and get out of here by four. Can I bring anything home with me?_

Sara glanced sideways at Neal, who'd turned his face away and closed his eyes. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, and his breathing was too rapid and shallow. _Ginger ale, Gatorade, Jell-O._

Whatever was in the shot held Neal over while his IV finished and they waited for the doctor to let him go. Sara went downstairs to fill the Compazine script at the pharmacy and returned just in time to get instructions from the nurse on how to look after Neal. He needed his temperature taken every two to three hours, even at night. It would likely rise as his body fought off the infection, but if it rose over a hundred and three, they'd have to come back in. 

The shot did not hold Neal over until they got home. They nearly made it; they were only a few blocks from the Burkes' when Neal said, "Pull over" in a strange voice. There was no parking, so Sara came to a stop in the middle of the road and put her hazard lights on. Neal opened the door and vomited onto the ground. Wincing, Sara rested a hand on his back.

Finally he pulled himself back into the car. Sara handed him a bottle of water from her purse, and he took a sip, spat it out onto the ground, and then took another. His eyes were red and watering, and his face was the color of old milk. "Okay," he said.

She eyed him dubiously. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

They made it home in one piece. Somehow, they got inside and up the stairs to the bathroom before he threw up again. Sara fumbled the cap to the Compazine open and tried to hand it to him with a cup of water from the bathroom sink, but he shook his head, pushing it away. "It won't stay down," he said. He rested his head on his arm.

She crouched down beside him. "Please, Neal, just try." 

He shook his head, then coughed, spat into the toilet, and slumped again. "Sorry. Not sexy."

"You think I care about that right now?" Neal didn't answer, just closed his eyes. Sara sighed, continuing to rub circles on his back, over his sweat-dampened shirt. 

Sometime around three, the nausea let up enough for Sara to get the Compazine and some water down him. He wasn't ready to move from the bathroom floor, though, and she didn't think she was up to trying to lift him off of it, and so they stayed, with Neal's head pillowed on her thigh, until Peter got home at a quarter to five. 

Sara didn't think she'd ever been as glad to see Peter Burke as she was right then. Hell, she wasn't sure she'd ever been so glad to see _anyone_. He took in the two of them on the bathroom floor and said, "Well, it looks like I missed all the fun." Neal gave a weak laugh. Peter crouched down and stroked sweaty hair off Neal's forehead. "Still puking?"

"No," Neal said, in a rough, raw voice. His cough was, if anything, worse than it had been that morning. "It's just hard to get up."

"Got it. Well, you'll be a lot more comfortable in a bed, buddy. C'mon, I bet between the three of us we can do it."

Together, with Peter taking most of the weight, they got Neal up. Peter supported him - nearly carried him - into the guest room, and Sara pushed aside the covers on the unmade bed so that Peter could deposit him on the mattress. Then she spread the blankets over him, tucking him in. "Thanks," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

Peter dragged the trashcan over toward the bed. "There. Just in case. Now what's your poison? We have ginger ale, Gatorade, tea?"

"Ginger ale."

Peter nodded. "Sara, could you grab it? I left it on the kitchen counter."

"Sure," she said, hoping she didn't sound too terribly grateful. "Would you mind taking his temperature? Anything under a hundred and three is okay."

She took her time in the kitchen. There was a limit to how long she could conceivably spend cracking a can of ginger ale into a glass with some ice, but as soon as she was out of the guest room, she'd started shaking, and she wanted to get it under control. She stood at the sink and washed her hands thoroughly. Forget showering and shaving, she thought. _This_ was what Peter had meant when he'd said recovering from a gunshot wound was embarrassing and messy and totally undignified. Sara couldn't remember the last time she'd been in a position to hold someone's head while they threw up, and God knew no one had held hers since an unfortunate tequila incident her freshman year at Smith. 

Finally, she forced herself to move, got a glass from the cupboard and ice from the fridge. She poured the ginger ale in, let it fizz down, and poured some more. 

She was pouring in the last little bit when her phone rang. She glanced at it: blocked number. She frowned and answered. "Sara Ellis speaking."

"Ms. Ellis?" an unfamiliar voice said. An unfamiliar female voice, very nervous. 

Sara’s heart sped up. "Yes?"

"This is Rita. Rita Malone. I'm calling because I thought about what you said, and you, you were right."

"Oh?" Sara said, tightening her hand around the glass of ginger ale.

"I just - you'll promise me I won't go to jail? Or lose my job? I can't lose my job, Ms. Ellis, my daughter and I won't make it if I lose my job. I made a mistake - I shouldn't have done it, I know that, but the bank was hounding me, and I didn't know what to do anymore."

"I'll do everything I can to see you don't lose your job," she said. Most of the time Bosch didn't make her reveal where she'd gotten her information - unlike the FBI, she didn't have to account for that sort of thing - but he might in this case, since Henry Sullivan was his friend. On the other hand, she suspected that if the sculpture were returned, neither of them would care about anything else.

"Can you meet me right now? There's a café down the street from my house."

Sara closed her eyes, wincing. "I'm sorry, I can't meet you tonight. What about tomorrow?"

"No! Tomorrow's Saturday, Beth will be home. You have to meet me today."

"I can't," Sara said, even as she cursed the timing. But there was no question, she thought. Even with Peter home, she couldn't possibly go into the city to speak with Malone tonight, no matter that Neal probably would've told her to do it. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to tell you over the phone."

"Rita, listen to me," Sara said, as gently as she knew how. "It's safe, all right? It's probably safer than meeting in person would be."

There was a long, uncertain pause. Sara held her breath. "Jack Taylor," Rita said at last, almost in a whisper. 

Sara let her breath out. "Thank you. You're doing the right thing."

"I hope so," Rita said, and hung up. 

Jack Taylor. The name didn't mean anything to Sara, but it might to Neal or Mozzie. At least now she had something to work with. 

She took the ginger ale and one of the Jell-O cups upstairs. Neal was sitting propped up with pillows against the headboard. He looked like death warmed over, but at least he was upright. Peter was putting a DVD in. He glanced up when Sara entered and raised an eyebrow, as though asking if she were all right. She gave him a small smile and went to sit on the bed. "Ginger ale and Jell-O," she said.

Neal winced. "No Jell-O."

Sara nodded, putting the cup aside and handing him the ginger ale. He sipped at it, eyes going unfocused. Sara looked at Peter. "What are we watching?"

" _How to Steal a Million_ ," Peter said. The menu came up and Peter selected _play movie_. "Either of you need anything?" he asked as the opening credits started to roll. 

Sara glanced at Neal. "I think we're okay."

Peter nodded and went to the door. Neal raised his head. "Where're you going?"

"Just downstairs," Peter assured him. "I brought some work home with me."

"Oh," Neal said. Sara felt him slump, just a little. "Right."

Sara met Peter's eyes. She raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. "Or you could stay and watch the movie with us," she suggested. 

"I could," Peter said. "Just, uh, let me get a chair -"

"There's enough room," Neal said, shifting over. 

There was, but only if Neal was practically in Sara's lap. She shrugged and made a _be my guest_ gesture toward the other side of the bed. Peter sat down, somewhat awkwardly, keeping one leg on the floor. Neal gave a contented sigh, and Sara stroked her fingers through his hair. Peter rested one hand on Neal's shoulder, almost casually. 

Neal was asleep within minutes. Sara wasn't sure why Peter had bothered to put on a movie at all, but since Neal had her more or less pinned, she was grateful he had. To her surprise, he stayed even after Neal had fallen asleep. "You all right?" he asked, a few minutes after Neal's breathing had deepened and evened out. "You were gone for a while."

"I'm okay," she said. "I just needed a minute. It was a long day." She shifted, trying to get a little more comfortable without waking Neal. "What was his temperature when you took it?"

"101.7."

"Okay. We have to take it every couple of hours until it breaks. The nurse said it would probably go up before it went back down, but we need to make sure it doesn't go over a hundred and three."

Peter nodded. "If you want, you could sleep on the sofa tonight, and the three of us could take turns getting up."

It was incredibly nice of Peter to offer, and for a moment, Sara was tempted. She was already tired from a long, stressful day, and having to wake up every couple of hours all night long sounded like the very definition of misery. But Neal would be on his own if she slept downstairs. "Thank you," she said, "but I think I'll be okay."

"Yeah," Peter said. He smiled faintly. "I know you will."

***

Neal's fever hovered at just under a hundred and three all night, before finally breaking around seven in the morning, leaving him drenched and irritable. Sara put him in the shower and, after a moment's consideration, stripped her own slightly damp pajamas off and climbed in with him. They stood under the spray together, Neal's face resting in the crook of her neck and a decent percentage of his body weight resting on the rest of her. She held them both up as long as her back allowed, before gently pushing him away so she could scrub away the dried sweat of a feverish night and help him wash his hair.

An hour or so after she’d helped Neal back to bed, she heard Peter get up. She waited just long enough for him to make coffee and then stumbled down the stairs. She held her hand out, and he pushed a mug into it. "It's June's Italian roast," he told her. "It seemed like it would probably be that sort of morning."

"Thank you," she said, with an embarrassing amount of sincerity. She breathed it in for a few seconds before taking her first sip. It was strong, too strong without milk, and just right. She took two more sips and said, "Neal's doing better. His fever broke this morning."

Peter let out a relieved breath. "That's great to hear." She nodded and reached for the milk. They were both silent for a minute or two. "You look exhausted, you know," Peter finally commented. "If Neal's doing better, why don't you take a day off? You've been on since Tuesday, including all last night."

Sara shook her head. "I'm okay."

Peter frowned at her. "You might be now, but if you don't take a break, you won't be soon. It's Saturday, and I'm home all day. I think El was going to get her nails done or something, why don't you go with her?"

Sara almost said that she had a standing mani-pedi appointment, until she remembered that she'd canceled it on Thursday. If she was honest with herself, a few hours out of the house didn't sound so terrible. She'd left Neal asleep upstairs, and she suspected he'd probably be that way for most of the day. "That'd be nice," she said, "as long as Elizabeth's okay with it."

"Okay with what?" Elizabeth asked as she came in, clad in a bathroom and slippers and with her hair pulled back. Peter handed her a coffee mug. She sipped and made an appreciative noise. "Peter, you broke out the good stuff."

"Thought Sara could probably use it after last night."

Elizabeth nodded. "I repeat: okay with what?"

"With going with you to your toenail thing today," Peter said, gesturing toward Elizabeth's feet.

"Oh," Elizabeth said, raising her eyebrows. "Sure. They open at ten. I'll call and see if they can fit us in together."

They could, and so at noon she and Elizabeth left and walked the few blocks to the nail salon, a small, homey place with a _Drop-ins welcome!_ sign in the window. Elizabeth seemed to know everyone who worked there, and she chatted casually with Anita, the woman who was doing her feet. Sara let herself sink back into the large, plush chair and zone out while Anita's coworker Zoë rubbed lavender-scented lotion into her calves and arches. 

"How you doing over there?" Elizabeth asked eventually. 

"Mmm," was the only answer Sara could muster. Elizabeth laughed quietly.

Soon - far too soon - she was sitting under the lamp, waiting for her feet to dry. Elizabeth sat beside her, wriggling her toes with delight. "I don't know why men don't do this," she sighed. "They're missing out."

Sara snorted. "Neal would."

"Neal would," Elizabeth agreed, "and probably has. But not Peter. I suggested he try it once - just come with me and get his feet rubbed and his toenails buffed, I wasn’t trying to talk him into anything _radical_. But you'd have thought I'd told him he should wear my wedding dress and sashay down Broadway." 

Sara laughed. "I can imagine." She sighed. "Thank you for letting me tag along. I really needed this."

"Of course. Hey, you want to go to lunch? There's a Thai place a few doors down that I like.”

Sara suddenly realized she was starving. She'd had almost no dinner the night before, and breakfast had been half a cup of the Greek yogurt she'd tried to prod Neal into eating. "Sure," she said. "Why not?"

It was mid-afternoon by the time the two of them finally returned to the Burkes', laden with pad thai for Peter and soup for Neal. Peter was watching sports in the living room, which Sara assumed meant Neal was sleeping. She headed upstairs to the guest room, where she found that Neal was indeed sound asleep; there was even a little bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. Sara smiled at him, then slipped off her shoes, pulled off her jeans and sweater, and slid into bed beside him. 

She woke some indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of pages turning. She rolled over and saw Neal sitting propped up on pillows, reading a novel. "Hey," she said, sleepily. 

He smiled down at her, looking much better than he had that morning. "Hey. I hope I didn't wake you."

"I don't think you did." She sat up, glanced at the clock, and had a sudden shock. "Even if you had, _three hours_ was long enough."

"I've never seen you sleep like that in the middle of the day." 

"Me neither." Sara rubbed a hand over her face. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You clearly needed it."

"Yeah, but three hours." She shook her head. "Where're Elizabeth and Peter?" The house was too quiet for anyone else to be home.

"Grocery shopping." Sara nodded, still only half awake. Neal set his book aside and carefully shifted himself down under the covers. Sara rolled onto her side and let herself fit against him. She hooked a foot over his calf and bent her head, breathing him in. Neal nuzzled her hair. 

Sara’s thoughts still felt loose and disconnected, and so it almost made sense to her when Neal said, "It's weird how things work out, isn't it? Seven years ago you hated my guts."

"Mmm. To be fair,” Sara said, without opening her eyes, “I hated your guts _and_ found you incredibly attractive."

"You sure did a good job of hiding it."

"Well, it only made me hate you more."

Neal laughed softly. "Can I ask what happened? You almost had me arrested for stealing the FAA package from your apartment, and then something changed. I was never sure what."

Sara decided that she actually needed to be awake for this conversation after all. She rolled onto her back to look up at him. "Stop the presses. I believe Neal Caffrey just admitted that there are limitations to what may be accomplished with his personal charm and charisma."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "With you, Sara, I've never had any trouble admitting that. I'm serious, though. I've never been able to figure it out."

Sara had to think before she could answer. She'd never quite been able to answer it for herself, either, but then again, she'd never really tried. She hadn't wanted to examine her own motivations too closely, perhaps. "I think that when I listened to that recording," she said, slowly, "it was the first time you were a real person to me. Before, you were _Neal Caffrey: Brazen Art Thief_. I was pretty sure I got you, and I didn't think there was much there to get."

"Ouch," Neal said, ruefully.

Sara poked him. "I said, that was before. After I listened to that recording and heard Kate's voice, you became someone else. Someone who was grieving for his girlfriend and probably making bad decisions - like having Mozzie break into my apartment - because of it."

"That wasn't a bad decision," Neal insisted. "I needed the package."

Sara gave him a look. "You could have asked me."

"And you'd have given it to me?"

"I _did_ give it to you,” Sara pointed out, “once I knew what was in it."

"True, I guess," Neal said. "But I didn't have any reason to think you would."

" _Anyway_ ," Sara went on, pointedly, "you wanted to know what changed. I think that was the first time I felt empathy toward you. Mind you, I was still mad about the Raphael, but empathy opened the door to feeling other things toward you, too."

Neal nodded, slowly. "Well, whatever changed, I'm glad it did."

Sara smiled. "Me, too." She slipped her hand beneath Neal's pajama shirt and traced patterns across the smooth skin of his chest. "Hey, I haven't told you this yet. I heard from Rita Malone."

Neal lifted his head from her shoulder. "When?"

"Yesterday, after Peter came home. She called while I was in the kitchen, getting your ginger ale."

"What'd she say? Did she give you a name?"

"Yeah, she did." Sara pushed herself up on one elbow. "Jack Taylor. Ring any bells?"

Neal's eyes widened. "Yes. Remember the story I told you about the woman in the travel agency?"

"The one from Iowa?"

"Yeah. The guy who made me do it, Wilkes. Taylor worked for him the same time I did. He was a pretty big guy, but nimble for his size. Wilkes and his partner liked to use him for the heavy lifting. Well," Neal added with a smirk, “his partner liked to use Taylor for other things, too.”

Sara blinked. "Really?"

“Yeah. Or so Taylor claimed. He used to tell me stories about her. Scariest woman I’ve ever met - present company excluded, of course.”

Sara snorted. “Thanks, Caffrey. Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

Neal shrugged. "It could be a different Jack Taylor, but I'd stake my reputation it isn't."

Sara sat up. "Could Wilkes or his partner be behind the robbery?"

"Wilkes, only if he’s orchestrating it from behind bars. As for his partner, I don’t know. Rumor has it she retired after Wilkes went away. But a guy like Taylor never goes long between jobs." Neal frowned. "Sara, Wilkes liked to hurt people, and he used Taylor to do it. Taylor's not a good guy. You should tell Peter about this. The FBI has resources you don't."

Sara shook her head. "I can do this without FBI resources. I just need to find out who he's working for."

Neal pushed himself up, wincing. "Whoever it is, it's not someone you want to mess around with. Not without armed backup.”

Sara shook her head again, stubbornly. “I can't tell Peter. If I tell Peter, I'll have to tell him how I know, and then it'll come out that Rita Malone was the one who told me. She could go to prison."

"Peter won't let that happen. They'll give her immunity for flipping on Taylor."

"She'd still lose her job. I told her I'd do everything I could to prevent that. Besides,” Sara added, when Neal continued to frown, “now that I know who the thief was, maybe Moz can find something out through his contacts.”

Neal sighed. “Maybe. I’ll get in touch with him.”

"Thank you," Sara said, relaxing fractionally. She could close this case on her own, she thought. She'd closed hundreds of cases on her own, contrary to anyone's - _Robson's_ \- opinion. This was no different. 

"But I don’t get it. Why not ask Peter for help? It'd make your job a lot easier."

"Rita Malone -"

"Don't." Neal shook his head. "This isn't about Rita Malone, and we both know it. Why won't you ask Peter for help? What've you got to prove?"

 _Nothing_ , Sara nearly said, but that wasn't going to fool Neal. He'd know she was lying, and he wasn't going to let this one go. She vented an exasperated sigh. "One of my colleagues might've implied that I was getting the FBI to solve my cases for me. It's not true, I know, but if he's going around telling people that, especially while I'm on leave, it could be very detrimental to my reputation at Sterling-Bosch."

"I see," Neal said, and to his credit, he didn't look at her like she was crazy. "Well, let's see what Moz turns up. But I think going after Taylor alone would be really stupid. And you know that if _I_ think that, it's probably true."

Sara gave him half a smile. "You have a point there. I'll be careful, I promise."

Peter and Elizabeth returned a few minutes later. Sara got dressed and went downstairs. Peter had stepped out to take Satchmo for a walk, so Sara helped Elizabeth put the groceries away. 

“What were you thinking about for dinner?” Sara asked, while storing vegetables in the crisper.

"Just tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, I thought," Elizabeth replied. "I'm sure none of us really wants to test Neal's stomach with anything more complicated yet. But if you wanted to open a bottle of wine, I wouldn’t say no."

"Sure," Sara said. She poured three glasses, handed one to Elizabeth, and claimed one for herself. The third she handed to Peter when he returned. 

"Thanks," he said, hanging Satchmo’s leash up by the door. "Feeling better?"

Sara decided it wasn't worth arguing that she'd been feeling fine to begin with. "Yes, much. You were right, I really did need some time off. And apparently a three hour nap."

"No shame in that," Elizabeth said. "Could you grab plates and spoons for us to take upstairs?"

"I got them," Peter said, moving toward the cupboards. 

Sara's phone rang. She glanced at it, saw that it was a blocked number, and frowned. "Excuse me, I'll just be a second." She took the phone into the other room and answered. "Sara Ellis speaking."

"Ms. Ellis," said a smooth, pleasant voice at the other end of the phone. "This is the man who hired Jack Taylor to steal Henry Sullivan's Rodin.”

Sara went very still. “I see. Are you calling to give back the sculpture?”

The man laughed quietly. “No. I'm calling to ask you, politely, to stop looking into it."

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," she said. "It's my job, you see. Nothing personal."

"I'm sure it isn't, and I'd like to keep it that way," he said. "But you see, I know that Ms. Malone called you yesterday, and I know what information she gave you. I also know where she and her daughter Beth live. I know the route she takes to get to work, and where and when she drops her daughter off for violin lessons. Such a lovely child, and so talented."

Sara’s blood ran suddenly cold. She cleared her throat. "I don't know what you're hoping to accomplish by threatening anyone."

"Back off, Ms. Ellis. Back off, or a terrible accident is going to befall Ms. Malone and her daughter." The call disconnected. 

Sara stood in the living room, holding her phone in her hand. This, she thought, was exactly what Neal had been afraid of. Or maybe not this exactly; he'd seemed far more worried that something would happen to her, personally. But he’d certainly expected something like this, one way or another.

"Sara?" Peter said. She looked up and realized he was standing in the threshold from the kitchen, frowning at her. "Is everything okay?"

Sara swallowed. "Not really." She took a deep breath. So much for solving the case without FBI help; not bringing in Peter now would be the height of irresponsibility. "We need to talk. And then you're probably going to want us to go into the office."

Peter pulled a chair out from the dining room table and gestured her into it. "Sit," he said. "Tell me what's going on."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti for beta reading!

The ride into Manhattan was anything but silent, though Sara didn't say much. Peter was on the phone from the moment they got in the car, first with his boss, Hughes, and then with Agents Jones and Barrigan. "I want Malone and her daughter in the office within the hour," he told Barrigan at the end of the call. "I don't want something to happen to them because we weren't fast enough."

"You got it, boss," she said, and disconnected. 

The silence that ensued was awkward. Sara cleared her throat. "Thank you."

Peter glanced at her sideways. "I wish you'd told me what was going on sooner. Why didn't you?"

"I don't need the FBI's help on every case," Sara said, doing her best not to sound defensive. "And, if you must know, I didn't think you'd like that I kept a case while on leave to take care of Neal."

Peter sighed. "Yeah. And that's my fault. I came down too hard on you in the beginning. Well, what's done is done, and I'm glad you came to me when you did. How do you think the guy found out about Malone's tip?"

Sara rested her head on her hand, staring out the window. "It must've been her phone call with me yesterday." 

“Makes sense. She was the weak link in the theft, the only non-professional involved. He must've bugged her phone to make sure she didn't get cold feet."

"Yeah." Sara closed her eyes. "I made her tell me on the phone, Peter. Neal was sick, and I knew I couldn't leave, but I didn't want to give her time to change her mind. I told her it was safer than meeting in person, and she believed me. _Damn_ it."

Peter cut his eyes away from the road briefly to look at her. "Blaming yourself isn't going to help. You had no way of knowing the phone was bugged."

"I should have been more careful."

"Maybe," Peter conceded, "but you're doing everything you can now. We'll pull Malone and her daughter in and send them to a safe house. Then we'll get a warrant for Jack Taylor's arrest. Neal said he's got priors, which means he has a parole officer, which means we should have an address for him."

"You really think it'll be that easy?"

Peter grimaced. "We can hope. Once we have him in custody, we can get him to tell us who the man behind the curtain is. Sound like a plan?"

"Yes," Sara said, relieved. Sometimes it was to her advantage that she didn't have to work entirely within the law, but that also meant she didn’t have the legal resources Peter did. 

The White Collar offices were empty when they arrived, but Jones got there soon after, and then, within a few minutes, Peter's fresh-faced probie, Blake. Barrigan was the last to arrive, with mother and daughter in tow. By then, the rest of the team had assembled in the conference room and spread Sara's case file and the FBI file on Jack Taylor out across the table. Sara glanced up as Barrigan and Malone stepped out of the elevator and straightened, steeling herself.

" _You_ ," Malone spat, making a beeline up the stairs for her. "You said we'd be safe, you said I wouldn't go to jail or lose my job, you _promised_ me -"

"Rita, I'm so sorry," Sara said, holding her hands out. "But someone called my phone and threatened you. Once you and your daughter were in danger, I had no choice but to bring the FBI in."

"You said it was _safe_!"

"Ms. Malone, please," Peter said quietly. "Sara had no reason at the time to suspect your phone was bugged." 

_Though I should have_ , Sara thought. 

"Let me get you some coffee, and you can sit with Agent Barrigan to give your statement. If you help us, I can all but guarantee that the D.A. won't seek any sort of prison sentence."

Malone looked down at her daughter, who pressed in close to her side. "What about my job?"

Peter sighed. "Your actions resulted in a multi-million dollar theft from your employer. I can't promise that you won't lose your job. But as consequences go, that might be the least of all evils, don't you think?"

Malone rested her hand on top of her daughter's head. "I guess so.”

Malone was still in with Barrigan an hour later when Jones and Blake entered the conference room. "What've you got, Jones?" Peter asked, looking up from Taylor's financial records. 

"We traced the call that came in to Sara's phone earlier this evening," Jones said. "Burner phone purchased with a stolen credit card. _But_ ," he added, as Peter grimaced, "we also pulled the call records for Malone's phone. In the week leading up to the theft, she received multiple calls from a phone registered to one Gregory Lynch."

_Ding._ "That’s one of Taylor's known aliases," Sara said, tapping his file. 

"Great," Peter said. "Now all we need is the warrant. Blake?"

"Judge Grey is faxing it over now," Blake assured him. 

Barrigan entered, Malone's statement in hand. "Boss," she said, handing it to him. "It's basically what we already knew."

Peter nodded. "Thanks, Diana. Jones, take them to the safe house."

Jones stood and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair. "Should I meet you at Taylor's address afterward?" he asked, shrugging into it.

Peter hesitated. "No," he said at last. "I want you to take Sara back to my place and stay until I get home."

Sara turned to stare at Peter. "You're not serious."

Peter held his hands up. "Look, if we get Taylor - and I'm not sure we will, he might've been tipped off already - I'll be home not long after. I'm going to let him stew overnight and talk to him in the morning."

"And if you don't get him?"

Peter sighed. "Then it might be a long night."

"Peter, this is _my_ case," Sara said, standing to brace herself against the conference table. "You can't just bench me."

"I'm not benching you," Peter said evenly, "but whoever this guy is, he knows who you are. Once Malone and her daughter disappear, you become the obvious target."

"And you want me in your house?" Sara said, in a last ditch effort. "With your wife and Neal -"

"- and a state of the art alarm system, and until I get home, Jones. Yeah, Sara, I do. Go home, get some rest. You can come back with me in the morning."

Sara gritted her teeth. "Fine.”

"Thank you." Peter grabbed his coat off the back of the chair. "Diana, Blake, let's move out. Thanks, Jones."

The ride to the safehouse in Queens was dead silent. Malone sat in the backseat with her daughter and didn’t speak a word. Several times, Sara considered saying something - _I’m sorry, truly sorry_ , came to mind - but she held her tongue. Apologies wouldn’t be welcome, she knew.

Jones made her come in with them while he got Malone and Beth settled and introduced them to the agents on watch duty at the house. "How soon is this likely to be over?" Malone asked wearily, once her daughter had gone upstairs to see the bedrooms. "Beth has a recital next week."

"It's hard to say, ma'am," Jones said.

Malone nodded, looking very tired and very young. Sara was reminded suddenly that she wasn't even thirty yet, that Beth had been born when she was only twenty, and that there was no mention of even an ex-husband anywhere in her file. "Rita, I'm so sorry," she said, deciding it was worth a try one last time.

"Don't," Malone said, without looking at her. She followed her daughter up the stairs.

Jones exchanged a few words with the agents on duty, and then Sara followed him back out to the car. She buckled herself in and stared blankly out the window as Jones pulled away from the curb. Why was this hitting her so hard? Malone had deliberately left the doors unlocked, and if she hadn't known the Rodin would disappear, she must have known something would. She was an accessory to the crime, whatever her motives had been. She was lucky things were turning out as well as they were.

None of that seemed to make the slightest bit of difference to Sara's conscience. 

Jones cleared his throat. "How's Caffrey doing?"

Sara assumed Peter had been keeping Barrigan and Jones apprised of Neal's recovery, but she appreciated the stab at conversation. "All right. He came down with a respiratory infection, but they gave him some heavy antibiotics yesterday, and he's doing better now. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

"I would've come to visit, but Peter said he was sleeping a lot. Diana and I didn't want to overwhelm him." 

Sara nodded. "I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you tonight. Sorry you're on babysitting duty."

"Nah, it's cool. If they do arrest Taylor, Diana and Blake'll have take care of the paperwork." Jones grinned, and Sara smiled, feeling the knot in her stomach loosen just a little.

Elizabeth met them in the foyer as they came in. "Clinton, what a nice surprise." 

"Hi, Mrs. Burke," Jones said, allowing her to take his coat. "Peter sent me to occupy your sofa until he gets home."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "I see. I take it I should set the alarm, then?"

"Might be a good idea. Is Neal awake? I'd like to say hi."

"Yes, I think so. Go on up." 

Jones headed upstairs, and Elizabeth set the alarm using the keypad by the front door. Then she looked at Sara. "I believe we were having a glass of wine when you and Peter went running out earlier."

"Yes," Sara said with relief, "I believe we were."

Elizabeth poured them both glasses in the kitchen, but then she steered Sara into the living room and pushed her to sit on the sofa. Sara took a too-large sip of wine, paused for a moment to swallow and breathe, then took another.

Elizabeth watched her openly, frowning. "Sara, what happened?"

Sara leaned forward, covering her eyes with her hand. Then she drew a deep breath, sat up, and told Elizabeth everything, from the phone call in the kitchen yesterday to the phone call that had sent her and Peter running out the door, and everything that had happened that evening. "And I just don't know what I should have done," she finished. Elizabeth held the wine bottle up, offering, and she nodded, holding her glass out. "I couldn't leave Neal to go into the city, but if I'd put it off, Malone would’ve gotten cold feet and never talked to me again. And now that poor woman and her daughter are sitting in an FBI safehouse because she believed me when I told her it was safe to talk to me over the phone."

Elizabeth topped off her own glass. "That's certainly one way of looking at it. Another way is that she and her daughter are in an FBI safehouse because when someone offered her two hundred grand for leaving a few doors unlocked, she did it. And you can't seriously tell me she didn't know what would happen."

"No," Sara admitted. "But she trusted me."

Elizabeth sighed. "Sometimes there's no good choice, and you do the best you can. Maybe there was some way for you to get your tip, take care of Neal, and protect Rita and her daughter, all at the same time. But if so, I'm not sure what it would have been."

"Yeah." Sara kicked her shoes off and pulled her feet onto the sofa, tucking them beneath her. "Me neither." She shook her head. "A year ago, I would’ve never had this problem. After my parents died, I didn't think about anything but work for a long time. Even when I was engaged - well, we broke up over where Sterling-Bosch was headed, if that tells you anything."

Elizabeth nodded, frowning. "Would you go back?"

Sara considered the question carefully. Would she go back to thinking of nothing but herself and work? No Neal, no _anyone_ , really. Even when she’d been with Bryan, she’d been alone. She was surprised by how upsetting the idea was. "No,” she said. “I wouldn’t."

Elizabeth tucked her own feet up beneath her, mirroring Sara’s position. "It's hard, you know, for everyone. Peter and I both have careers that take up way more than forty hours a week, and it's not easy for either of us to just drop things. But we do the best we can, and it seems to work out. Most of the time," she added wryly. "Don't ask me how many anniversaries Peter has worked through. But when I've really needed him, he's always found a way to be there. And I hope he'd say the same." Sara nodded, rubbing the stem of her wine glass between her forefinger and her thumb. "If it helps," Elizabeth said after a moment, "I think you made a good call. I don't know if it was the _best_ call, but it was a good one."

Strangely, it did help to hear that. Sara managed a smile. "Thanks."

Heavy footsteps on the stairs signaled Jones's return. Elizabeth stood to offer him wine and food, and Sara's stomach growled, reminding her that she and Peter had left before dinner. She declined Elizabeth's offer of reheated soup, threw a salad together instead, and carried it and a bottle of water upstairs. 

Neal was sitting up in bed, on top of the rumpled covers. "Hey," he said as she came in. "Jones filled me in. Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said, sitting down on bed. She balanced her bowl on her lap. "I guess so. I don't know. I'll be better if Peter arrests Taylor tonight, and he tells us who he was working for."

Neal nodded. "Peter's the best. He'll make it happen."

"I know he will," Sara said with a sigh. "I'm just frustrated that _I_ couldn't make it happen."

"You had some extenuating circumstances," Neal said, indicated himself with a gesture and a grimace. “There's no way you wouldn't have met with Malone last night otherwise."

Sara gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yes, well, that was my choice. I made it, and I'm sticking to it." 

Neal didn’t look convinced. "If you say so."

Sara picked at her salad until Neal started to droop, then kissed him goodnight and went downstairs. She found Elizabeth and Jones chatting in the kitchen, both of them with bowls of ice cream. "Just heard from Peter," Jones said, as Sara entered. "They got Taylor. He was packing a suitcase when they busted him."

Sara gave a sigh of relief. "That's great."

"Peter's going to let him sit in holding overnight, so he's on his way home right now."

Elizabeth held up a pint of Rocky Road. "Celebratory ice cream?" 

She hadn’t eaten much of her salad, but after the evening she’d had, Sara decided she just didn’t care. "Sure," she said, sliding onto the stool next to Jones's.

Sara was toying idly with her spoon in the dregs of her ice cream when Peter arrived home a few minutes later. He kissed Elizabeth, who went about scooping the last of the ice cream into a bowl for him without bothering to ask if he wanted any, and then turned to Jones and Sara. “Well, we got him, and not a moment too soon.”

“Did he say anything?” Sara asked. It was probably too much to hope for, but occasionally people flipped on their employers with almost no prompting at all. 

Peter shook his head. “He was doing the silent and surly thing tonight. He made a phone call, supposedly to his lawyer, but I have my doubts. We have a team searching his place right now."

"What time do you want me tomorrow?" Jones asked. 

Peter grimaced. "I told Diana and Blake eight. I know it's early on a Sunday, but I want to get started."

Jones nodded. "I'll see you then. Don’t worry,” he added, when Peter started to get up, “I can see myself out. Have a good night.” 

Elizabeth handed Peter his bowl of ice cream. "Do you want real food, too?"

Peter shook his head. "I grabbed something on the way home."

Elizabeth frowned. "Tell me it wasn't a hot dog." Peter looked guilty. " _Peter_."

"You're the one handing me a bowl of ice cream!"

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "That was before I knew about the hot dog." Peter stepped swiftly out of her reach, keeping a firm grip on his bowl. "Fine," she sighed. "But you'd better eat something decent for breakfast _and_ lunch tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," he said obediently. 

Sara decided she should let them have some time together before turning in. She slipped off her stool. "I should go to bed. Have a good night."

"Good night," they both said, already turning toward each other, pulling together like a magnet and metal. Sara went upstairs, changed into her pajamas, and slid into bed beside Neal. But sleep didn’t come easily. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling and turning everything over in her mind, until long after Peter and Elizabeth had come upstairs.

***

Hours, or maybe only minutes after she’d finally managed to fall asleep, Sara was startled awake by the ringing of her phone. She sat up, heart pounding, and fumbled for it on her nightstand. Beside her, Neal mumbled, "What the hell . . ."

She looked at the number. Blocked. She swore and grabbed Neal's phone, charging next to her own. "Sara?" Neal asked.

"Shh," she replied, as she found the recording app on Neal's phone. She started it recording and answered her own phone at the same time, putting it on speaker phone. "Sara Ellis speaking."

"Ms. Ellis," the smooth voice from earlier in the evening said. "I hope I didn't wake you."

Sara felt her pulse jump. Beside her, Neal stiffened. "Of course not," she said calmly. "I'm always awake at 2:48 in the morning."

The voice chuckled, and something about it made the hair on the back of Sara's neck stand up. "Well, I wouldn't have called at such a time, but I'm very upset, you see. I gave you the courtesy of a warning, and what did you do? You called in the FBI."

"Sorry about that. Well, no, actually I'm not. But don't bother looking for Rita Malone and her daughter. You won't find them."

The voice sighed. "No, I suspect that's true. But I'm annoyed now, Ms. Ellis. Exceedingly annoyed. And when I'm annoyed, unfortunate things tend to happen. Watch your step." The call disconnected. 

Sara killed the recording, then reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. "Did you recognize the voice?" she asked Neal, who'd propped himself up on his side to listen. 

"I don't think so," Neal said, slowly. "You should wake Peter."

Sara shook her head. "No. What's he going to do at three in the morning? I couldn't be much safer than I am right now. I'll play the recording for him tomorrow."

Neal did not look happy. "Did you bring your gun with you?"

Sara raised an eyebrow. "No. You hate when I sleep with it under the pillow."

"Yeah, I do. Most of the time. But not when I’ve just listened to someone calmly threaten you.”

"Hey," Sara said, turning onto her side to face him. She reached for his hand, sliding her fingers between his. "Don’t worry about me, all right? I’m going to be fine.” 

"People who are that calm while threatening someone's life are not people you want to mess with," Neal told her.

"I know. Look, I'm going into the office with Peter tomorrow morning. I'll get my gun from my apartment then."

"Get Peter to take you.”

"Neal, I can take a cab without -"

"Get. Peter."

"All right, I'll get Peter to take me, I promise," she said, because Neal looked like he was about fifteen seconds away from popping his stitches. "I promise," she repeated, when he didn’t look convinced. "Now let's try and get some sleep, okay?"

"Peter's going to say you should've woken him."

"Peter needs to be fresh to make Jack Taylor sing like a canary in the morning," Sara said, turning the light out and rolling over to spoon Neal from behind. "He'll get over it."

In the morning, Sara presented Peter with the recording from the previous night's phone call over cereal and orange juice. He stared at her. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Sara gave him a wry look. "What were you going to do at three in the morning, Peter?"

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. "Nothing, I guess."

"Exactly. Here," she pressed a flash drive into his hand, "I transferred the file from Neal’s phone this morning. I don't know how much help it'll be, but it’s better than nothing."

"Thanks," Peter said, accepting it from her. "I'll send it over to Tech when we get to the office, see what they can do with it. Are you ready?"

Sara swallowed the last of her orange juice. "When you are."

***

By that afternoon, Sara was bored and almost physically itchy from inactivity. Interrogations were dull as dishwater unless you were one of the principles, and Taylor had stonewalled both Barrigan and Peter. He hadn’t so much as blinked when Peter had offered him the chance to plea bargain for giving up his boss's name. By three o'clock, Peter was clearly ready to throw in the towel. 

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said, as Diana left the interrogation room for the second time, with nothing to show for it. “I’m going to have him charged with the theft of the Rodin, based on Rita Malone’s testimony. Then we should all go home to enjoy what’s left of our Sunday.”

“You got it, boss,” Diana said. She and Jones left to make the arrangements. 

Peter sighed. “How do you feel about Italian?” he asked Sara. “Donatella’s does take-out.”

“That sounds fine to me,” Sara said, too discouraged to care. “Could we run by my apartment first? I promised Neal I'd carry my gun until this was over."

Peter frowned. "I can have an agent assigned to you if you don't feel safe."

"Please don't," Sara said firmly. She could just imagine Blake the probie following her around all day like an overeager puppy. That was all she needed. "This is mostly for Neal's sake. And I need to pick up my mail, anyway."

“Sure,” Peter said. His phone went off, and he glanced at it. “It’s Neal. Hey, is everything - sure.” Peter took the phone away from his ear and put it on speakerphone. “What’s up? Did you hear from Moz?”

“No,” Neal said, his voice tinny, “but I had an idea. Half an idea.”

“Half an idea is more than anyone else has right now,” Peter said, straightening up. “Spill.”

“The phone call in the middle of the night, I think I know who it might've been."

"You said you didn't recognize the voice," Sara said, exchanging a glance with Peter. 

"I didn’t at the time. But something about it seemed familiar, so I listened to it again this afternoon. It was the laugh. The laugh was familiar. Peter, does the name Rebecca Barnes ring any bells?"

Peter frowned. "Yeah, she was Ryan Wilkes's girlfriend. Still is, for all I know."

"No, Peter, she's not his girlfriend. She's his partner and has been for years."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "We investigated her when we took down Wilkes. She's clean."

"She's _smart_ ," Neal corrected. "Smart enough to keep herself out of the muck. But she's definitely not clean. I didn't think about her, because the voice on the phone was clearly male, but -"

"- that could be faked," Sara finished. "With the right software, that could easily be faked." She looked at Peter. "Could your tech people find out if the voice was modified or synthesized?"

"Maybe. The recording quality isn't great, but they can certainly try. Are you sure?" he asked Neal.

"No. But once I had the idea, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I listened to the recording five or six times, and it sounds like her - not the voice, but the diction, the laugh, all the rest of it. And it makes sense, too. Rebecca always had a weakness for nice things. All the art Wilkes ever moved was because she told him to.”

"And if Taylor was still on Wilkes's payroll when we put him away,” Peter said slowly, “it'd make sense that he'd go work for her." 

"Or even if he wasn't," Neal said. "I didn't think about it, because as far as I knew, it'd been years since Taylor worked for Wilkes and Barnes. But Barnes always liked him a lot more than Wilkes did."

"It's worth checking out. Any other gems of insight you want to share with the class?" Peter asked wryly. 

"Not for now,” Neal said, a smirk in his voice. “But I’ll let you know.”

“You do that,” Peter said, and hung up. He looked at Sara. “Well, that gives us something to go on, at least. But I think we’ll leave it for tomorrow morning. Malone and her daughter are safe, Taylor isn’t going anywhere, and it’ll be easier to make headway when all the Bureau’s resources are available to us.”

Sara thought about arguing, but the truth was that Peter was right. There was only so much they could do at four o’clock on a Sunday, when there wasn’t a life-or-death situation at stake. It rankled, though, especially since she knew she likely wouldn’t be able to come back the next day. If whoever was behind this knew that Sara was staying at the Burkes', then they probably also knew why. She and Peter had already agreed that Neal shouldn't be left on his own while he was recovering and vulnerable. Peter had to be at the Bureau to make progress with the investigation, and Elizabeth had a business to run. That left Sara at home. It made sense, but that didn't mean it didn't bother her.

“You ready?” Peter asked, breaking into her thoughts. “Because I’m thinking that the only thing that’s going to save this day is a too-big slice of lasagna and some garlic bread.”

Sara managed a smile. “Yes, I’m ready. Let me just grab my coat.” 

***

It rained all day on Monday. Sara and Neal spent the day curled up on the sofa, channel surfing and waiting to hear from Peter. Sara tried not to twitch at every little sound the house made, but by the time Peter came home at seven, she knew she couldn't do another day like this one. El said she was okay with working from home the next day, but when Sara mentioned her plan to Peter, he balked. Predictably.

"I have a standing appointment on Tuesdays at twelve-thirty," she told Peter, as calmly as possible. "I'll ride in with you and see if I can't help with the investigation while I’m there."

Peter frowned. "You'd be safer here." Sara gave him a look. "But you knew that already," he sighed. "Okay. If you let me fit you out with a GPS transmitter tomorrow morning at the office, you can go to your appointment without an escort."

"I have a cell phone.”

"The first thing any halfway competent kidnapper does is dump the cell phone," Peter returned. "We have eyes on Barnes at all times, but we don't have eyes on all her people. We didn't even know she _had_ people until yesterday. We'll give you a watch. It'll look nice."

"Fine," Sara said, with minimal reluctance. Peter wasn't going to budge, she could tell, and she supposed it was a small price to pay. 

The next morning she and Peter were out the door even earlier than usual. This gave her hours to kill before her appointment with Kirsten, so she went with him to the office first. Peter gave her a quick rundown on what they had on Barnes - not much, aside from some surveillance photos - and the promised watch with a GPS tracker. "It also has a panic button," Peter added, showing her the pin on the side. "Twist and pull and we’ll have agents to you in under five minutes."

Sara rolled her eyes. "I don't need a panic button, Peter. I have a baton and a gun."

"Things happen," Peter said. Sara frowned, unconvinced. Peter sighed. "If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for Neal. He doesn't need any more stress right now. Help me keep you safe."

_Damn it._ "Fine," Sara said, and swapped her watch out for the one Peter gave her. It didn't look terrible, she had to admit; she'd thought that it'd be some clunky, obvious thing, but it'd clearly been made to look natural on a smaller wrist. It wasn't quite her style, but it also didn't scream, _FBI toy!_ as she'd feared it would. 

Peter left to get them both cups of coffee, and Sara studied the photo of Rebecca Barnes on the conference room screen. She was in her late thirties, according to her file, and had a longtime association with Ryan Wilkes. Brown eyes, olive complexion. Sara envied her cheek bones. The handful of surveillance photos showed her coming and going from her Upper West Side apartment. In one of them, she was carrying grocery bags, and in another, she was standing on a corner, talking on her cell and waiting for the light to change. She certainly didn't look like a criminal mastermind.

"Are we sure it's her?" Sara asked Peter when he returned. He handed her a cup of FBI swill. She sipped at it, just barely managing not to grimace.

"No," Peter said, "but it's all we have to go on. Tech is analyzing the recording you made of the phone call. They think it might have been synthesized, but they're not sure. There's a lot of background interference because of the way the recording was made."

Sara nodded. "Well, what can I do to help?"

"Glad you asked," Peter said. He set a thick file on the table. "This is Ryan Wilkes's file. I'd like you to go through and play ‘Spot the Hidden Partner.’ Neal said they teamed up in 2002 or 2003. I'd like you to look for patterns that change in Wilkes's crimes around then."

"You want to know what her influence on Wilkes was, to figure out what kind of criminal she is."

"Exactly. I don't expect you to get through the whole file this morning, but bring me what you have before you leave for your appointment." Sara nodded and settled in with the file and her mug of terrible coffee.

Peter left her alone in the conference room for the next couple of hours. Through the glass doors of the office, she could see his agents coming and going, but no one disturbed her. She worked steadily, making notes on a yellow legal pad, until eventually she glanced at her GPS watch and realized that if she didn't leave in the next five minutes, she was likely to be late for Kirsten. 

She knocked on the doorjamb of Peter's open door. "Come in," he said, glancing up. "Oh, good, Sara. What've you got for me?"

Sara dropped the legal pad on his desk. "As far as I can tell, Barnes and Wilkes must've teamed up in late 2002. Before then, he's basically a thug - a lot of suspected armed robbery, some drug trafficking. Lucrative but not elegant. Then suddenly, in late 2002, his crimes get a lot more imaginative, and he gets interested in art and jewelry. He's suspected of having lifted a Manet in Paris in March 2003, but it never surfaced on the black market. In August of that same year, he's suspected of a jewelry heist right here in Manhattan. Most of the pieces were large, clear diamonds, but the most unique and valuable one was an emerald set in platinum. It hasn't been seen since."

Peter leaned back. "You think Wilkes lifted the Manet and the emerald for Barnes?"

Sara shook her head. "I think they lifted them together. I think Neal’s right. She's smart, and she likes nice things."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Do you think she's violent?"

Sara shrugged. "She teamed up with Wilkes, which means she doesn't mind getting her hands dirty. People got hurt in a lot of the crimes he's suspected of after she joined up with him. My guess is that she usually pays other people to do her violence for her, but she doesn't flinch from it when it’s necessary." She nodded at the legal pad. "Those notes are more detailed. But I have to go or I'll be late."

Peter nodded. "Got your watch?" Sara held up her wrist. "Good. Be careful."

"I always am," Sara said. She collected her coat and left.

The cab ride was slow, and Sara was a couple minutes late by the time it pulled up outside Kirsten's building. Sara paid the cabbie and dashed up the steps. Kirsten's waiting area was empty and her door was cracked open, so Sara just went through. "Sorry I'm late," she said, shrugging out of her coat, "but have I got a story for -" She stopped, her brain catching up just a half a second too late.

Kirsten wasn't sitting behind her desk. Kirsten was sitting in the armchair Sara usually occupied during their sessions.

Rebecca Barnes sat behind Kirsten's desk. Smartly clad in a gray business suit, she sat with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded on the desk in front of her. Behind her were two very large men with shaved heads and dark expressions. 

"Hello, Ms. Ellis," Barnes said pleasantly. She had a small gun in one hand, and she used it to gesture Sara into the room. "Please come in. Shut the door."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, you guys. The epilogue is going up in just a few minutes, and then the story will be COMPLETE. 
> 
> Thanks to via_ostiense, Fuzzyboo, and Lionessvalenti for beta reading, cheerleading, reassuring, and - when necessary - kicking my ass. Couldn't have done this without you!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's commented and kudos'd as I've been posting. This has been a great posting experience, and I'm so glad that the story means something to other people. I've received such wonderful, thoughtful comments, and that's been very gratifying, because this story means a lot to me. So thank you for all of your support! (And stay tuned at my journal for meta about this story, probably.)

Sara stepped inside Kirsten’s office and shut the door. 

"Thank you,” Barnes said pleasantly. She tapped the desk in front of her with one perfectly manicured fingernail. "Gun, cell phone, and any FBI toys you might have on you, please. Oh, and your infamous baton." She kept the gun trained casually on Kirsten, hand and gaze equally steady.

Sara laid the requested items on the table. She did not remove her watch. Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Peter and I decided the GPS transmitter in my cell phone was enough," Sara said.

Barnes's eyebrow arched even higher. "I don't believe you. I haven't gotten where I am today by thinking the feds are stupid. Hand it over, whatever it is."

Sara hesitated. "It's in my purse. I'll have to reach in and get it."

Barnes gave a small flourish with her gun. "Go ahead."

Sara reached into her bag, searching. At the bottom, her fingers closed around a heavy ballpoint pen. It would do, she thought, as long as Barnes didn't try to take it apart. She pulled it out and set it on the table.

Barnes smiled. "That's better." The phone buzzed; Barnes glanced at it without picking it up. "Peter Burke would like you to know that I've given his agents the slip."

"I'd guessed that already," Sara said dryly. "So, tell me. What's our game?"

"Simple enough. You come with me, and I don't shoot Dr. Nichols here."

"I see." Sara looked at Kirsten. "Are you okay? She hasn't hurt you?"

Kirsten shook her head. "I'm fine."

"Good." Sara looked back at Barnes. "All right, then. We go, she stays."

Barnes laughed. "I don't think so. The minute we're out the door, she's going to call your friends at Federal Plaza. No, this is a group excursion. Boys." She gestured the men forward; one of them grabbed Kirsten by the elbow and pulled her to her feet, while the other one went for Sara.

" _Don't_ ," Sara growled at him, jerking away when he tried to take her by the arm. "I'm coming voluntarily. Tell your muscle there's no need to manhandle us."

Barnes nodded to her men. "You heard the woman." She stood, stepped out from behind the desk, and stopped in front of Sara. "But if one of you bolts, I _will_ shoot the other one. Are we clear?"

"As crystal," Sara said, turning to follow Barnes out. She caught Kirsten's eye and tried to smile reassuringly. She wasn't sure she succeeded, but then again, she could do one better. Her right hand went to her watch, twisted the pin, and pulled it out.

Five minutes, Peter had said. It hadn't sounded like very long, but now, in real time, five minutes was an eternity. In less than two, she and Kirsten were in the back of a black sedan with one of the goons, pulling away from the curb. The other goon drove; Barnes sat up front with him. Peter and the others would be behind them, Sara told herself. They'd get the panic signal, check the GPS transmitter, and be right on top of them in about three minutes.

Barnes twisted round, holding up a small black box with a button. "Recognize this?"

Sara's heart sank. "Signal scrambler."

Barnes hit the button and set it on the dashboard. "Just in case, you understand."

"Of course.” Sara cleared her throat. "May I ask what it is you want?"

"Oh, many things," Barnes said, waving a hand. "I _want_ , for instance, that the FBI show considerably less interest in me. I want to go back to my nice, peaceful, anonymous existence. And I wouldn’t mind having Jack Taylor returned to my beck and call."

"And kidnapping my therapist and me helps with this how?"

Barnes sighed. "Kidnapping is such an ugly word."

Sara rolled her eyes. "My apologies. Forcibly removing my therapist and me at gunpoint helps with this how?"

"It doesn't. But I wanted to talk to you, Ms. Ellis, for longer than was possible over an unsecured cell phone connection. Somehow I didn't think you'd listen if I asked you to meet me at a café."

Sara shrugged. "No, probably not."

"So I thought. Quiet now," Barnes said, turning away. "We have a bit of a drive."

It took nearly forty minutes to reach their destination, a dilapidated warehouse by the water, probably not so different from where Neal and Mozzie had stashed their treasure. There was a great deal of commotion, men carrying boxes and items draped in canvas out of the warehouse and onto a mid-sized yacht. "Moving day?" Sara asked.

"Unfortunately." Barnes turned and gestured with her gun. "Come with me. Dr. Nichols, please remain where you are. Give me any trouble, Ms. Ellis, and Harry here will shoot her."

"Understood." Sara gripped Kirsten’s hand briefly. "It's going to be okay."

Kirsten nodded, eyes very wide. "I know,” she said, with only a slight tremble in her voice. “Be careful."

Sara climbed out of the car. Barnes left the scrambler behind, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief. The wind off the water was harsh against her face as she followed Barnes across a concrete slab and into the warehouse. It was relatively small and mostly empty, though Sara could see dusty outlines, now disturbed, where items must have sat for a long time. She wondered if the Manet was in here somewhere, or if Barnes had found a way to display it, if only for herself. 

Then she saw it. Right in the center of the warehouse. Her Rodin.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Barnes laid a proprietary hand on the sculpture. " _The Kiss_. It's my favorite. When I realized there was one right here in Manhattan, I knew I had to have it. An unfortunate decision, in hindsight. It brought a lot of trouble down on my head." Barnes turned on her heel to face Sara. " _You_ brought a lot of trouble down on my head. Twenty-four hours ago, the feds had no idea who I was. And now, I have to leave New York. That vexes me."

Sara shrugged. "I'd say I was sorry, but I try not to apologize if I don't mean it."

To her surprise, Barnes laughed. "Oh, I knew I'd like you.”

Sara blinked. “Thank you?” she hazarded. “Though I must say you have a strange way of showing it.”

Barnes shrugged. “My options were limited. I needed to get your attention, and this seemed like a pretty foolproof way of doing that.”

This conversation just got stranger and stranger. “Get my attention?” Sara repeated, raising an eyebrow. “For what?”

Barnes’s smile widened. “I'm giving you back the Rodin."

Sara stared, wondering if she’d simply started hallucinating. "You're _what_?"

"Giving it back to you. What you do with it after that is your business, of course, but even if you turn it in, you'll get - what? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand?"

Sara cleared her throat. "A hundred and twenty thousand."

Barnes nodded. "It's not six million, but I'd hope that you would consider that sufficient as a down payment. A promise against future returns."

Sara tore her gaze away from the Rodin to frown at Barnes. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a partnership," Barnes said with a smile. "I'm always on the lookout for new talent. I like you, Sara. I like how you talked back to me over the phone. I like how level-headed you were when I pointed a gun at you. I like how you handled this case."

Whatever Sara had thought Barnes would say to her, that certainly wasn’t it. "What are you suggesting? I run off with you, leave New York?" _Because I’ve already had that offer once - well, almost - and it didn’t work out then, either._

"Oh no, perish the thought," Barnes said, waving her gun. "I'd never ask you to leave New York. I'm quite upset about it myself. No, I have to leave, but you don't. You wouldn't even have to quit your job. In fact, it’s quite crucial that you don’t."

Sara suddenly understood. "An insurance scam. You steal something, fence it, tell me where it is, and I recover it. We get the money from the original sale and from the insurance.”

Barnes nodded. "That's the basic idea. Occasionally, I might ask you for something more complicated.”

Sara frowned. "But why?" she asked, partly out of sheer curiosity but mostly to keep Barnes talking. Every second brought Peter and his agents closer to them. "The recovery money would be negligible compared to what you’d get for the piece itself on the black market."

"You'd be surprised. It's hard to move high ticket items safely. Fences pay less when they think they might get caught. Your recovery fee could increase our take by as much as fifty percent, depending on the job."

Sara frowned. That wasn’t it; at least, that wasn’t all of it. She watched Barnes carefully, letting the silence stretch a few seconds longer than was comfortable. What would prompt Barnes to suggest something like this? It wasn’t the money. Whatever Barnes said, she was clearly capable of fending for herself, and a fifty percent increase wasn’t much of an incentive when split between two people. It had to be something else she was after. Not financial, Sara thought, not professional. No, this felt surprisingly personal.

 _Oh._

“You miss Wilkes,” Sara said quietly. “You miss working with a partner.”

Barnes sighed. "Ryan and I had some good years together, it’s true. In a good partnership, everyone brings something to the table.”

Sara forced herself to soften her voice. “What did you bring to him?”

“Vision,” Barnes said, with a note of true regret. “An understanding of the big picture. An appreciation for the finer things in life."

Sara cocked her head, studying Barnes. "And what did he bring to you?"

Barnes smiled, baring her teeth. "The ability to carry a gun, and the willingness to use it."

Sara swallowed. Perhaps a trip down memory lane was _not_ the way to go after all. "Sounds like you were quite something together. But then you let him take the fall. Not a great selling point for someone who might be considering a partnership with you."

Barnes shook her head. "That kidnapping scheme was all his idea. I told him not to do it, but he wouldn’t listen. He had a stick up his ass about Caffrey. All that time and energy, wasted.”

“At least you don’t have the share the profits,” Sara pointed out.

Barnes shrugged. “This might come as a shock, but I’ve never been in it for the money. I like what it can buy, but I’m a woman of simple tastes.”

Sara eyed the Manolo pumps Barnes was wearing. She knew they’d cost at least $800, having bought a similar pair herself a few months back. “I see.”

Barnes glanced at her watch. “Well, Sara, as pleasant as this has been, I have a boat to catch and a timetable to keep. What do you say?"

Sara pursed her lips. “I don’t know, it’s a lot to take in. Do you offer dental?”

Barnes frowned. “Don’t toy with me.”

“Sorry,” Sara said contritely. “It’s not everyday I get this sort of offer from a total stranger. I’m flattered, I really am, but I can’t make this sort of decision so quickly. Can I have a few days to think about it?”

Barnes rolled her eyes. “Of course not. This is it, Sara. In five minutes I’m on that boat, on my way out to deep water. Are you in or out?”

“Are you sure about this?” Sara asked. Peter and his agents had to be getting close - it’d been at least five minutes since they’d left the car - but on the other hand, they’d traveled a long way from Federal Plaza. She wasn’t sure how fast they could get people to her out here. “You know I have ties to the FBI. What would stop me from saying yes to you and then helping Peter and Neal bring you down?”

Barnes smiled. “Nothing, really. But that’s not who you are, Ms. Ellis. You’re not devious, deceptive Neal Caffrey. You’ll tell me yes or no, right here. So, _tell me._ ” She smiled. “Are you going to play it safe and boring? Buy a house with a picket fence? Or are you going to say yes to the adventure of your life?”

For a moment, Sara imagined it. It was a good plan, as these things went. If she’d met Neal ten years earlier, she might have considered it. A life always on the edge of the law, playing both sides, never fully trusting anyone - she thought it would have appealed to her younger self. They would have made quite the team: Neal, the brazen art thief, and Sara, his silent partner. It would have been fun, until it ended, as it inevitably would have with Peter on the case. But only Neal, Sara thought, could make decisions that foolish seem perfectly reasonable. Only Neal could have ever talked her into it. And now, she thought, the sort of adventure Barnes was proposing just sounded empty. Sad, almost pathetic. _Lonely._

“I’m sorry,” Sara said, shrugging. “A life of crime might be exciting, but I hear prison is painfully dull. And I'm not in the market for a new partner, anyway. I like the one I have.”

Barnes wrinkled her nose. “Caffrey.”

“Yes,” Sara agreed, “Caffrey. But thank you," she added, "for the Rodin. I'll be sure to think of you fondly when I cash my commission check."

This time, Barnes’s laugh had a hard, almost brittle edge to it. "I do like you."

"So you've said."

"Which is why it really upsets me that now, I have to shoot you." Her gun came up, lightning fast. "I was really hoping not to have to do that."

Sara held her hands up. "You still don't have to. Tie Kirsten and me up, leave us for the feds to find. You're leaving Manhattan, going God knows where. I can’t tell them anything that would hurt you."

"Sorry, but no." Barnes's grip on her gun visibly tightened. There was a quiet _click_ as she turned off the safety. "No loose ends. Ryan taught me that."

A siren suddenly wailed outside, faint through the walls of the warehouse. Barnes’s eyes widened, and Sara saw her opening. She kicked her foot out, sweeping Barnes's feet out from under her; Barnes landed hard on her back, and Sara went for the gun before she had the chance to recover her air. They grappled, but Sara had better leverage and the advantage of the upper hand. She ripped the gun from Barnes’s grasp and pointed it at her until she was able to get one knee on her chest. Then she brought the gun up to point at Barnes’s thugs, who had frozen in shock. They were armed, too, but none of them had been able to shoot Sara without risking hitting their boss.

"No one move," Sara ordered. The sirens were ear-piercingly loud now. Sara hoped like hell that the goon in the car with Kirsten didn't get any ideas. "We're going to do this the easy way."

The door to the warehouse burst open. "NYPD! PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Sara held her hands up, gun dangling from her thumb, then got to her feet and stepped aside. She identified herself to one of the officers, who relieved Sara of Barnes’s weapon. A pair of officers pulled Barnes off the ground and patted her down, unearthing a second firearm strapped to her leg beneath her skirt. A half a dozen other uniform cops swarmed in behind them to arrest Barnes's men. 

Barnes glared at Sara. "You could've been so much more," Barnes said, even as they cuffed her hands behind her back, "if only you'd had the guts."

Sara knew she shouldn’t respond, but the adrenaline was still singing in her blood, and she couldn’t help herself. “I have plenty of guts,” she told Barnes. “Sometimes, the picket fence is the adventure.” She turned and walked out of the warehouse. She wasn’t sure she believed herself, quite, but if it was a choice between a picket fence with Neal or a life of adventure and intrigue with anyone else, she thought she’d take the picket fence. After all, life - any sort of life - with Neal was unlikely to ever be boring.

Outside, an officer had Kirsten sitting on the bumper of one of the cop cars. She was half bent over, elbows resting on her knees. Sara waved off several cops, all trying to get her attention, and hurried over, calling Kirsten’s name. Kirsten looked up, relief flashing across her face. “Sara, thank goodness!” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sara said. “Are _you_ okay? I was worried when the cops turned up that -”

"Yeah," Kirsten said, smiling wanly, "me too, for a moment. But I think he must've realized the game was up." She nodded toward another police vehicle, where the guy who'd sat in the back seat with them was being cuffed and read his rights. "Barnes must not've been paying him enough to add murder to his charges."

"I'm just glad you're all right." Sara sank down next to her on the car, as her knees suddenly felt weak. An officer appeared with a blanket and a bottle of water; Sara accepted the water but pushed the blanket away when he tried to foist it on her. The officer gave up quickly, to Sara’s relief. She sipped her water and, out the corner of her eye, watched Kirsten do the same. 

"I'm so sorry about this,” she said, after a beat of silence. “I never thought for a moment that they'd go after you."

Kirsten shook her head. "I won’t say that these things tend to happen to me, but, well, I’m sure it’ll be an interesting story to tell. What did she want, anyway?”

Sara shrugged. “Lots of things,” she said, not wanting to go too much into detail. “I couldn’t help her with any of it. Which would have been very unfortunate for me, but the cops’ timing was impeccable.”

Another car, this one very familiar, pulled into the warehouse lot, tires squealing on the asphalt. It came to an abrupt stop, and Peter, wearing a flak vest and an FBI windbreaker, shot out of the driver’s side. “Secure the scene,” he barked at Barrigan and Jones, who climbed out behind him. “This is our case, not NYPD’s. And get me - Sara!” He broke into a jog, and Sara stood. “Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. We got Barnes - oh," she squeaked in surprise, as Peter hugged her. She patted him on the back awkwardly until he let her go. He held her at arm's length, as though checking her for injury. "I'm _fine_ ," she repeated, feeling the tips of her ears turn red. "We both are." Sara gestured to Kirsten. "Kirsten, this is Special Agent Peter Burke. Peter, this is Dr. Kirsten Nichols. My therapist."

Peter blinked, then nodded in understanding. "Your standing Tuesday appointment."

"Yes," Sara said with a grimace. "Much to her detriment today."

Peter held his hand out. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Nichols, circumstances notwithstanding. I apologize for what happened to you today."

Kirsten shook Peter's hand. "I'm all right, as Sara said." She glanced toward the warehouse, and Sara followed her gaze. Police officers were marching Barnes's men out to put them in vehicles. Barrigan and Jones jogged toward them, already flashing their badges. Establishing jurisdiction, Sara assumed. "I wouldn't mind getting out of here, though," Kirsten added in a strained voice. Sara rested a hand on her shoulder.

Peter nodded. "Let me speak with the officer in charge, and then I can drive you back to our offices. I'm afraid you'll have to give a statement, but we’ll get it over with as quickly as possible. Oh and, Sara?” Peter tossed her his cell phone, and she caught it reflexively. “Call Neal. He and El are probably halfway into the city by now.”

Sara stared. “Peter. You didn’t.”

“Of course I did. Just like I called you when something happened to him.”

“But that was different. He was _shot_. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” Peter said, patiently. “You hit your panic button, and then you went dark. If that’d happened and I hadn’t called Neal, do you think he’d have ever forgiven me?”

“But I’m fine,” Sara repeated, weakly.

“And he needs to know that. Call him, right now.” Peter turned and strode away, flashing his badge at the police officers.

Sara stared at Peter’s phone in her hands. “Peter’s right,” Kirsten said quietly. “Call him.”

Sara nodded. Neal was Peter’s #2 on speed dial, she knew, right behind Elizabeth. “It’s just strange,” she said, her finger resting lightly on the number. “To know that there’s someone to call.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Sorry, that’s maudlin.”

“Well,” Kirsten said, turning her head to look out over the water, “you’ve had a bit of a day. I think it’s excusable. Now stop stalling.”

Sara pressed the button and held the phone to her ear. It rang one and a half times, and then Neal answered. “Peter?” he said, a note of terror in his voice.

“No, sweetie,” Sara said, the endearment rolling off her tongue before she could second guess herself. “It’s me.”

***

Elizabeth and Neal were waiting in the bullpen when Sara stepped off the elevator with Peter and Kirsten. Neal stood, faster than Sara would have thought him able, and hobbled toward her on one crutch. 

"Hey, I'm okay," she said, just as Neal wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her toward him. Sara tensed, then relaxed, pressing her face into Neal's chest before wrapping both arms around his neck. "Really," she said, more softly, "I'm okay. I swear."

"Peter called," Neal said into her hair, voice strained. "He said you'd hit your panic button, but they'd lost your signal."

"I know," Sara said, smoothing a hand down his back. "But they got it back, and I'm here now. Come on," she pulled away and nudged him into turning around, "we're blocking the aisle." _And making a spectacle of ourselves_ , she thought, glancing around. The agents in the bullpen were staring at them with varying degrees of curiosity, indulgence, and irritation. Sara felt herself flush. Elizabeth caught her eye, and Sara shot her a desperate look. Elizabeth smiled.

That was when Sara discovered that, amongst her many other talents, Elizabeth Burke had an uncommon ability to take charge of a situation without anyone realizing she'd done so. Within a few minutes, Elizabeth had somehow convinced Reese Hughes to vacate his own office, and Neal was installed on his sofa with his leg elevated. Peter had dispatched Jones to fetch Rita and Beth Malone from their safe house, and Kirsten was giving her statement to Barrigan and Peter. 

This left Sara and Neal with some modicum of privacy. She sat next to him on Hughes’s sofa and let him keep a death grip on her hand. "It's okay, Neal," she said, stroking the hair at the back of his neck. "This isn't my first rodeo."

Neal frowned. "Is that meant to be reassuring? This scared the hell out of me. I don't want to do it again."

"Well, you getting shot scared the hell out of me," Sara returned, "so now we're even." Neal managed a choked laugh. "Seriously, as kidnappings go, this -” _could have been worse_ , no, that wasn’t the right thing to say “- wasn’t that bad. Barnes just wanted to talk." Except at the end, of course, when she'd wanted to shoot her, but Sara decided that Neal didn't need to know about that. Not right now. 

Neal frowned. "About what?"

Sara shrugged. "She wanted a partnership."

Neal blinked. "Really?"

"I think she misses Wilkes more than she'd like anyone to know. She had it all worked out - she steals things, I work the insurance angle. The only problem, of course, is that -"

"You're not a criminal?"

"Well, yes, there is that," Sara agreed. "Not that you don't occasionally make that life look glamorous and tempting, but while I like orange, I don't look good in a jumpsuit."

"No one does," Neal agreed. "A hard lesson the '80s had to teach us."

“True,” Sara said with a smile. “But no, that wasn't what I told her."

Neal frowned. "What was it, then?"

Sara drew a deep breath. "I told her that I'm not in the market for a partner. I already have one."

Neal looked surprised, then touched, and then, finally, just a little worried. "You were talking about me, right?"

Sara poked him. "Yes. As though there could be anyone else. Or haven't you been around the last couple of weeks?"

Neal grimaced. "Unfortunately."

She poked him harder. "Don't start," she told him. "It's not your fault, and I don't want you to apologize. I wouldn't do it for just anyone, but I did it for you, and I'm glad that I did. And I do think of you that way. As my friend and my lover and my partner."

"In crime?" Neal suggested with a smile. 

"Sometimes," Sara said, returning his smile. "If necessary, and if it won't give Peter a heart attack."

Neal sighed. "You two are obviously in cahoots to ruin all my fun."

"Yes," Sara said, flatly. “Yes, I think keeping you out of prison is something Peter Burke and I definitely agree on. And will conspire about, if necessary."

“Well, when you put it that way, I guess I can’t really argue.” Neal pulled Sara toward him, and she hooked her foot over his. "I think of you that way, too," he said, tracing her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "I didn't want to scare you away, back when we first got together. I knew you were doing it against your better judgment. But I'd never have asked you out again if I wasn't serious about us."

Sara forced herself to look him in the eye. "And in a year and a half when the anklet comes off?"

Neal sighed. "I don't know what's going to happen when the anklet comes off," he admitted. "Most of the time, I don't let myself think that far ahead. But I do know that I want you to be a part of whatever I do. I won't vanish in the middle of the night again, I promise."

Sara's throat suddenly felt very tight. It felt as though everything had changed between them in the last two weeks, but she hadn't realized how badly she'd still needed to hear Neal say that. "Thank you," she managed. "And if you wanted to move to Europe for a while, Sterling-Bosch has offices -"

"I don't," Neal said. "Want to move to Europe, I mean. New York is my home, I found that out when I had to leave it behind. I want to be here. With you and Peter and El and Moz. Not even Paris is better than that."

Sara nodded. "Good. I - I want that, too."

Neal smiled. "I’m glad." He linked his fingers through hers. "Which isn't to say that it wouldn't be nice to do some traveling."

Sara smiled. "I think I could swing that. Paris and the Amalfi coast?"

"We could probably do your cabana fantasy, too."

"I'll hold you to that."

"I'm sure you will," Neal said, with wry satisfaction. 

A few minutes later, Sara saw Kirsten emerge from the conference room with Peter and Barrigan. She squeezed Neal's hand. "Back in just a minute," she told him, and went out to meet the three of them on the landing at the top of the stairs. 

"If you think of anything else, here's my card," Peter was saying to Kirsten, "but it should be a pretty open and shut case."

"Thank you," Kirsten said, taking the card from him. 

Peter looked at Sara. "Your turn. Are you ready?"

"Actually,” Sara said, glancing toward Kirsten, “could you give us a moment?" 

"Of course," Peter said. "Find me when you're done. Diana, you want to see me about the, uh, the thing?”

“Right,” Diana said, nodding, “the thing.” She followed Peter into his office and shut the door, giving Sara and Kirsten as much privacy as could be had in the middle of the White Collar offices.

Sara shook her head. “Subtlety, thy name is not Peter Burke,” she remarked. Kirsten gave a brief, strained laugh, and Sara forced herself to look at her. "So. How are you doing now that the adrenaline's worn off?"

Kirsten took a deep breath. "Shaky. Being held at gunpoint in my own office is not something I'm used to."

"I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not, but it'd have never happened if it weren’t for me. So I am sorry. Very sorry." Sara glanced away, not quite able to look Kirsten in the eye. "I'd understand it if you'd prefer I find a new therapist."

Kirsten let out a breath. "No. That won't be necessary."

"Are you sure?"

Kirsten nodded. "I am. I might take a week off, though. Ten minutes in a car with an armed thug has a clarifying effect on your priorities. My sister lives in Virginia, and I haven't seen her in a year or so. I think I should do something about that."

Sara nodded. "Well, thank you," she said, feeling as though a huge weight had lifted off her chest. "Quite honestly, I didn't want to find someone new."

Kirsten smiled. Then she glanced in Hughes's office and caught sight of Neal, who gave her a bright grin and a wave. "So, that's the infamous Neal Caffrey."

"It is," Sara said wryly. 

"You said he was handsome. You didn't say he was -"

"Stop," Sara said flatly, though she smiled at the same time. "He can read lips. The last thing his ego needs is for you to finish that sentence."

Kirsten laughed, and this time, it was much less strained. "Right. Well, I think that very young man down there is waiting to take me home. I should go before Peter decides he has more questions for me."

Sara frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“No,” Kirsten said. “But I will be. I'll see you in two weeks at the usual time."

"At the usual time," Sara agreed, and watched as Kirsten left, escorted by Blake. 

Peter emerged from his office to join her at the top of the stairs. "She going to be all right?" he asked. 

Sara nodded. "Yes, I think so." She took a deep breath, then let it out. "Okay, I'm ready. But there's no reason for Elizabeth and Neal to hang around for this." Giving her statement would take at least an hour and possibly longer. 

Peter nodded. "Let’s see what we can do." 

To Sara's surprise, it didn't take much convincing for Neal to leave with Elizabeth. That meant his pain levels were much higher than he was letting on, and Sara put a quiet word in Elizabeth's ear that she should encourage him to take a Vicodin. Peter saw them to the elevator while Sara settled herself in the conference room. 

Peter returned with a yellow legal pad in hand. "You need anything before we start?" he asked. "Glass of water, cup of coffee?"

"A glass of water would be great."

Peter poured her a glass from the pitcher on the table and slid it across to her. "Do you have fond memories of this room?"

She snorted. "You mean of sleeping on a cot in the corner? No, not particularly. But depending on how you look at it, Neal and I had our first date up on the roof. Chinese takeout and wine out of glasses from the evidence room."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know that."

"He was trying to get into my good graces so he could steal the FAA package from me." She shook her head. "Those were the days. Amazing where we've ended up."

"Yeah," Peter said, in a strange voice. "Amazing." Sara glanced at him, curious. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "I want to say something," he said slowly, "and I'm probably going to botch it. El wants me to tell you that she told me not to do this. She doesn't think I can manage it without sounding patronizing. But that's not my intention, so please, try to give me the benefit of the doubt."

 _This ought to be good_. "Okay," she said warily. 

Peter drew a deep breath. "I know that none of this has been easy for you. It's been messy and unpleasant and you've borne the brunt of that. And I know that you've been hard on yourself the last few days. I wanted to tell you, you shouldn't be. You made a call, and there were consequences. But I'm proud of the call you made, and you should be, too."

Sara nodded. "Thank you," she said, surprised when her voice was a little rough. "You're right, it hasn't been easy."

"And I know, I made it harder than it should've been," Peter said, holding his hands up.

"No," Sara said decisively. She swallowed. "You were looking out for Neal. You had every right to do that. I might've objected to how you went about it, but you were right to be worried. You were right to say what you did. It made me think. If you hadn't said what you did to me that first night, I might've taken the easy road. And I'm really glad I didn't."

"Me too," Peter said, leaning back in his chair. "El and I have both enjoyed having you around, even under the circumstances."

"Even under the circumstances, I've enjoyed being around," Sara said, smiling. "Which is good, because I think we're stuck with each other for the foreseeable future."

Peter smiled. "Yeah?"

Sara shrugged. "It's not exactly a string quartet and a diamond ring, but Neal promised me he wouldn't run again. Neither of us knows what'll happen when the anklet comes off, but I figure if we can get through this, we can get through, well, a lot. More than I thought we were capable of.”

Peter’s smile broadened into a grin. "That's great, Sara. I mean it."

"And on that note," Sara said briskly, "let's get this over with. It's been a long day."

"Right," Peter said. He flipped through his legal pad to a clean sheet, and just like that he was an FBI agent, all business. Sara sipped her water and relaxed into the flow of question and answer. 

It was dinnertime by the time she and Peter arrived home. Sara glanced into the living room as they came in and glimpsed Neal, asleep on the sofa with a book open face-down on his chest. Peter followed her gaze and smiled. “I’m just gonna,” he said, gesturing with his thumb to the kitchen, where Sara could hear Elizabeth making dinner. 

Sara went into the living room and carefully fit herself onto a wedge of sofa by Neal’s hip. She picked up one of Neal's hands in hers and rubbed her thumb over the knuckles. He blinked his eyes open sleepily. "Hey," he murmured. 

"Hey," she said. "How're you doing?"

He picked his head up, briefly, then set it back down. "Groggy. El made me take a Vicodin. Told her I didn’t need one, but she insisted."

"I told El to make you take a Vicodin," Sara replied, smiling at him. "And yes, you did need one. You can't con me, Caffrey."

Neal smiled back, a little dopily. "You and Peter. Can't con either of you."

"Yeah," Sara said, smoothing his hair back, "so don't even try." She kissed him on the forehead. "I think dinner's going to be a little while. Go back to sleep."

"Mm," he replied, already halfway there. Sara looked at him for a moment before getting to her feet and going to see what she could do to help with dinner. _You and Peter_ , Neal had said, looking so pleased. As though there were nothing better than having two people in the world he knew he couldn't con. Maybe _that_ was how you got Neal Caffrey to trust you, she thought. Maybe for Neal, that was true freedom. 

If nothing else, she was in very good company.


	9. Epilogue

There was a harsh wind blowing down 53rd as Sara left Sterling-Bosch at a little before seven in the evening. She tightened the belt of her coat and wished she’d worn a scarf. The good fall weather was almost over; they might get one or two more nice days, but with Thanksgiving barely two weeks away, Sara wasn’t betting on it. 

She hailed a cab and climbed in with her briefcase, giving the cabbie Neal’s address on Riverside Drive. He pulled away from the curb, and she settled back, enjoying the warmth of the car. 

Her phone chimed. She pulled it out, thinking it was probably Neal, wanting to know if she was on her way home, but it wasn’t. _In the city tomorrow for client meetings_ , Elizabeth had written. _Lunch?_

 _Sure_ , Sara wrote back. _Meeting at 1:30. Noon at Qi?_

_Perfect. See you there._

Sara slipped her phone back in her pocket. She had assumed, once Neal was well enough to move back to June’s, that things with Peter and Elizabeth would simply go back to the way they had been. But Peter and Elizabeth seemed to disagree. First had come lunch invitations from Elizabeth, once or twice a week, and then invitations for Sunday dinner with Neal at their house. Neal reciprocated, once he was able to stand long enough to cook, and Elizabeth slipped Sara tickets for a gallery opening she was managing. Both she and Neal were invited to Thanksgiving, which Elizabeth had finally managed to wrest away from her sister. Neal was in charge of desserts.

“Did you really think things would just go back to the way they were?” Kirsten had asked her, in their first session after the Rebecca Barnes debacle. 

“I don’t know,” Sara had said. “I didn’t want to overstep.”

Kirsten frowned. “You didn’t want to overstep or you didn’t want to get your hopes up?”

“Maybe the latter,” Sara admitted.

Kirsten nodded. “I wouldn’t worry too much about overstepping. They like you, or they wouldn’t be doing this. Don’t constantly second-guess yourself, all right?”

“I’ll try,” Sara had said, if a little dubiously. And she had tried since then, though she couldn’t help the little moment of anxiety she had every time she texted Elizabeth about meeting up for lunch or coming over for dinner. But it was getting better. And she was having _fun_ \- more fun than she’d had in years, if she were honest with herself. 

The cabbie dropped her in front of June’s. Sara paid him and climbed the front walk. June had given her a key when Neal had come home from the Burkes’, but the housekeeper opened the door for her this evening. June wasn’t home, and so Sara went straight up to Neal’s apartment. "Honey, I'm home!" she called as she entered, a little breathless from the climb up four flights of stairs.

Neal, incongruously clad in tracksuit bottoms and an unbuttoned blue dress shirt over a white tank top, turned away from the stove. "Taste this," he said, holding out a spoon.

Sara slipped her heels off. "And hello to you, too," she said, padding over to him. She tasted the tomato sauce and _mmm_ 'd in approval. Neal tasted the rest of the spoonful and frowned. "More basil," he decided.

"Tasted great to me," Sara said, slipping her arms around his waist. She pulled him down for a belated kiss hello. He dropped his spoon into the sink and wound his arms around her waist. "I must say," Sara said, when he finally let her up for air, "I could get used to coming home to this."

Neal smiled and turned back to the stove, keeping one arm around her waist even as he dropped a handful of chopped fresh basil into the saucepan on the stove. "You shouldn't, actually."

"Oh?" Sara said, letting go of him at last. She poured herself a glass of wine from the Pinot Noir that was breathing on the side table. "The appointment went well, then?"

"The doctor said everything's healing fine. I'm cleared for light duty," Neal said, the smile broadening to a grin. "That means I'm back to work on Monday. Desk work only, for at least two or three more weeks, then I have another appointment for them to clear me for field work."

"That's great.” She perched on the edge of Neal's table and hooked one ankle over the other. "I'm sure Peter and the others will be glad to have you back."

Neal laughed. "Peter said things had been really boring without me. I think he just wants someone to dump all his mortgage fraud cases on."

"No reason he can't have it both ways," Sara said, smiling to see him so happy. Neal had been making the best of his recovery, cooking and painting and diligently doing the physical therapy he'd been assigned for his leg, but she knew he'd been itching to get back to work.

"True," Neal said, peering thoughtfully down at the sauce. He tasted it again and nodded in satisfaction, then went to throw the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water. Last time Neal had made spaghetti, Sara had come home to find all the kitchenette's meager counter space and the dining room table draped in freshly made pasta. But today he'd opted for store-bought pasta - only the best, of course, but it seemed she'd gotten spoiled. "How was your day?" he asked, once it was on.

"Not bad," Sara said. She sipped her wine. "I had a meeting with Winston Bosch, actually. He gave me the check for the Rodin recovery and thanked me on Henry Sullivan's behalf."

"Congratulations." Neal picked up his own wine glass and toasted her. "That must bode well."

"I think so," Sara said. So far there hadn’t been any repercussions for her time off. Even so, she’d started to wonder, since returning to work, whether it might be time for a change. What that change might be, she wasn't yet sure, but she thought it might be more drastic than taking a VP position at Sterling-Bosch. "We'll have to see."

"A hundred and twenty grand isn’t a bad haul. Any plans for it?"

Sara shrugged. "Rainy day fund, I guess,” she said, smiling at the inside joke. She sipped her wine before adding, in a too-casual tone she knew wouldn’t fool Neal for a second, “Actually, I was thinking. If I wanted to make an anonymous donation to someone's personal account, could you help me make that happen?"

"Probably," Neal said, frowning. "You'd need the account number and routing details, but you can get those off a canceled check. Let me guess. Rita Malone?"

Sara nodded. "Sullivan fired her, and I can't imagine she's had an easy time finding a new position. I keep thinking about her kid. But I don't think she'd accept it if she knew it came from me."

"Maybe not, but she'd also be wary of a few thousand dollars just magically showing up in her account. Want me to say something to Peter and see what he thinks?"

"I can talk to him," Sara said. "We're going over for dinner on Sunday, right?"

"Yeah, Peter said El is going to try a new Thai curry recipe." Neal checked the pasta. "This is just about done."

"Great," Sara said, sliding off the table. "I'm starving."

Dinner was delicious, as always. Sara didn't know how Neal could make plain old pasta and sauce taste so good, and he wouldn't tell her; whenever she asked, he just shrugged and said that the key to good Italian was in the ingredients. She really would miss this, once he was back at work, but she would happily trade a gourmet meal or two if it meant getting back to normal, whatever that meant for them now. Sara kept expecting the lack of personal space to drive her crazy; even after she and Bryan had gotten engaged, they hadn’t spent every night together. But after six weeks, it still hadn’t.

They lingered over their pasta. Neal poured her a second glass of wine, and Sara ended up leaning back in her chair, her feet in his lap as he massaged her arches. She was dangerously close to purring when Neal cleared his throat, almost nervously. "So," he said. "I finished it."

Sara opened her eyes and sat up. That explained the store-bought pasta. "Really?"

Neal nodded toward the easel in the corner. "Go look."

Sara brought her feet down off Neal's lap and stood, trying not to hurry. Neal hadn't allowed her so much as a glimpse of any of the sketches for his Rodin-inspired painting. Sara hadn't really minded - it was better to leave things up to the artist, she thought - but she'd grown terribly curious as time went on. More than once she'd had to control the urge to sneak a peak while Neal was sleeping or in the shower. 

She paused to take a breath, then stepped in front of the canvas.

The first thing her eye noticed was the color - strong blues and reds and even some yellows. After a second or two, they resolved into the familiar lines of the sculpture. If Sara had had to guess, she'd have thought Neal would choose a soft, Impressionistic style, but he'd gone for bold, daring pop art instead. The two figures on the canvas were recognizably Rodin's, but they appeared as they might through an infrared camera. The overall effect was warm and erotic; all the heat and passion that Sara loved in the sculpture was there on the canvas as well. It would certainly stand out in her living room, which tended toward more muted colors, but Sara had already been wondering if it might not be time to redecorate with an eye toward making her apartment look less like a tasteful hotel. This would certainly help with that project.

"Do you like it?" Neal asked, coming up behind her to wind his arms around her waist.

Sara covered his hand at her waist with her own. "It's not what I expected at all, but I love it. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," Neal replied, pressing his face into her hair. "For everything the last six weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Sara turned in his arms and linked her hands behind his head. "You could have. You'd have still had Peter and Elizabeth, Mozzie and June."

"They're not you," Neal said quietly. "They mean the world to me, don't get me wrong, but they're not you."

"Well," Sara said, glancing away, suddenly embarrassed, "some would say that's not such a bad thing."

Neal frowned. "And some would be wrong.” He shook his head. "I don't know who made you feel that way about yourself, but it's not true. I couldn't have gotten through this without you. The painting was the least I could do."

Sara nodded, ducking her head so she didn't have to look him in the eye. "It’s beautiful."

"At the risk of sounding really cheesy -"

"- as though you've ever let that stop you -"

"- I thought about you while I was painting it," Neal continued, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "How bold and unafraid you are, how you put yourself out there in everything you do. How much I love that about you."

"Hmm." Sara glanced sideways at the painting, trying to see that in it. She supposed she could, if she squinted. And Neal sounded sincere. She knew better than anyone that that didn't mean much, but it didn't take much effort at all these days for her to trust him. At some point, when she wasn't looking, that had become her gut instinct.

"So," she said, looking up at him with a small, teasing smile. "Did your doctor clear you for anything besides desk duty?"

Neal smirked. "He might have."

"Because you owe me, Caffrey. I was promised champagne and silk sheets, and it's been six weeks - _eight_ weeks, if I count the two that came before -"

Neal kissed her, long and deep this time, his hands stroking her back. Sara let herself get lost in it for some indefinite duration, enjoying the heat that kindled in her belly, the reactions of Neal's body against her own, the small, helpless noise he made deep in his throat.

"Silk sheets are on the bed," Neal said, satisfyingly breathless when they finally broke apart. "Champagne before or after?"

Sara pushed Neal’s dress shirt off his shoulders, then put her hands on his hips, squaring them against her own. She smiled. "After."

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks, as they say. Thank you so much for reading. And because no one writes in a vacuum, if you'd like to leave me a comment or hit the Kudos button, I would be all the more grateful.


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